


As Easy As Love / What You Fight For

by irisbleufic



Series: As Easy As Love 'Verse (& Related Indiscretions) [1]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, 1980s, Awkward Romance, Circus, Established Relationship, Films, First Time, Hiding Medical Issues, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Illustrations, Intersex, Intersex Character, M/M, Multi, Musical References, Parent-Child Relationship, Protective Parents, Video & Computer Games, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We know what we are, but know not what we may be.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Easy As Love

**Author's Note:**

> This stand-alone originates from two separate, yet related trains of thought; one, I've had the strong desire (since [_The Pursued and the Pursuing_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/806687?view_full_work=true)) to write another story featuring an intersex character, and two, a conversation with [leaper182](leaper182.tumblr.com) re: the challenge of examining trans character possibilities and similar within the _BTTF_ framework led to me sketching an outline for this story (with Leaper having contributed the focus character's birth first name; thank you, my friend). There's some obscure U.S. entertainment history in here (Emmett Kelly actually existed), as well as WWII-related content ( _no_ character death, so rest easy). Continuity-wise, this piece assumes that everything post drive-in scene of Part III does not occur, and neither do most events of the game (but aspects of the game remain relevant). This is another Marty-gets-stranded story, as I continue to find that premise compelling; it's best to look at this as an alternate take on _IAW / MUB_ 'verse. Soundtrack by Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, and Bing Crosby. Any errors surrounding life on an aircraft carrier are entirely my own. The mess of browser tabs and printed-on-the-sly-at-work medical case studies left behind in this story's wake will take a while to clean up. Special thanks to [neverwhere](neverrwhere.tumblr.com), who was one of the people I had intended to surprise with this, for doing a last-second continuity check on the text. The title is, indeed, meant to have resonance with one of the sub-section titles [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/navigate). Also for [imaginedmelody](imaginedmelody.tumblr.com), who's been an angel this week.
> 
> There is [an 8tracks.com](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/back-to-the-future-as-easy-as-love) playlist for this series.

**September 5, 1925**

_Gee, but it's hard to love someone_  
_when that someone don't love you._  
_I'm so disgusted, heartbroken, too—_  
_I've got those down-hearted blues._

Amelia clung to the brass kitchen doorknob, listening to Bessie Smith as she crooned on the radio within. His arms were short, so it was a chore to hold on, but he couldn't keep his ear to the keyhole otherwise. He could make out all the words, but he didn't agree with them. _Why is it hard to love someone?_ he wondered, letting go of the doorknob just long enough to rub at his itchy nose with one tightly-clenched fist. _Mother and Father love each other. They also love me._

Beneath the radio's hum, Amelia couldn't hear any sign of the cook, Clarissa, clanging around and muttering. She had made him a cake earlier, a fluffy white one with blue and purple icing that everyone had eaten after lunch. Clarissa had eaten with Amelia, Mother, and Father. Afterward, Father had wiped his mouth on a napkin, kissed Amelia's cheek, and gone back to work.

Mother had taken Amelia back upstairs to change his crumb-dusted dress and turned him loose to play. "Be good now, my darling," she had said. "The birthday girl must always be well-behaved."

Amelia had frowned, but he had nodded obediently in spite of the fact she'd said something wrong.

Determined, he tightened his grasp on the doorknob, tilting his head closer to the keyhole. If Clarissa with her smooth dark skin and long braids was no longer in the kitchen, then the only person he had to look out for was Mother. Father was still in the courthouse with his dusty books.

 _Once, I was crazy 'bout a man;_  
_he mistreated me all the time._  
_The next man I get has got_  
_to promise to be mine, all mine._

This verse, Amelia found easier to grasp. It was closer to what he knew, closer to what he saw day in and day out. Mother _was_ crazy about Father, but Father didn't, as far as Amelia knew, mistreat her. Father made promises to Mother all the time, and probably one of those was that he was hers, all hers. Amelia admired his father. When he grew up, that's the kind of man he'd be.

 _Nobody is in there_ , Amelia thought, letting go of the doorknob, steadying himself with a shaky breath. He wrapped a strand of his shoulder-length red hair around several of his fingers, gritting his teeth as he tugged at it in annoyance. _Time for my birthday present._

He reached back up and turned the doorknob, letting the air escape his lungs as the door swung inward and revealed an empty kitchen. He stepped inside and quickly backed up against the opposite side of the door, shoving it shut with all his strength. He was five years old now.

Finding the step-stool was not the tricky part. Pushing it up to the counter with the wooden block full of sharp things _was_. The task took several minutes. Breathing hard, Amelia finally climbed the stool and took hold of the edge of the counter, eyes coming to rest on his prize.

Knives were too dangerous, so he wouldn't touch them. But the drawer directly in front of him held a pair of shiny silver scissors that he had seen Clarissa use. Mother had said nothing about those.

 _Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days!_  
_Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days—it seems_  
_that trouble's going to follow me to my grave!_

Amelia picked up the scissors, shutting the drawer carefully. He knew about trouble more than most children, he reasoned, because he was forever getting into it. He also knew about trouble because it was what he put up with every day of his life. His hair was too long; it got caught on _everything_. It waved and curled when the weather got hot, and it got in his eyes when he went hunting for insects or took the magnifying glass that Mother used for stitchery to study plants.

He tugged one strand of hair as long as it would go with his left hand, and then snicked it away with the scissors in his right. Repeating the action was satisfying, so he continued until he ran out of easy-to-reach strands on that side. Without a mirror, this would take a while.

Deciding that a haircut, a _proper_ haircut, would be his birthday present to himself had been very easy. _Easier than love_ , Amelia thought, idly brushing at the shorn strands where they skimmed along his cheekbone. There were other boys with hair to their chins, but he didn't like the way that looked. He wanted his hair short like the older boys kept theirs, tidy and out of the way.

Amelia didn't like having to wear dresses, but Mother was quick to remind him that almost all children his age had to wear them. He had agreed that this was true, so he would tolerate it for now. He'd seen boys start to wear trousers when they turned just _slightly_ older than he was.

 _I ain't never loved but three men in my life._  
_I ain't never loved but three men in my life—my father,_  
_my brother, and the man that changed my life!_

Amelia was enjoying the song now, not thinking terribly hard about the words. He'd cut as much of the hair skimming along the back of his neck as he could, although he was aware he had missed some pieces. He was just getting started on the right side when the door behind him clicked open.

"Oh, _Amelia_ ," Mother sighed. She crossed the kitchen and turned off the radio, by now fully in Amelia's line of sight. "What have you done?"

Amelia bit his lip, lowering the scissors onto the counter. "I don't like my hair at all," he insisted.

Mother nodded, her eyes glowing with sympathy in spite of the way her lips told Amelia she was still upset. "I know that you don't," she sighed, "but do you remember what I've always told you?"

Amelia sighed and stomped his foot on the stool, indignant. "You said I have to wait till I grow up more," he recited, "but _Mother_! I don't like it. The others don't have to have it."

"But there are so many children with hair like yours," said Mother, carefully, coming around the side of the counter so she could run her fingers through Amelia's locks, inspecting his work. "And surely you must remember that yours is the loveliest of all. Not everyone has your color."

"You do," said Amelia, looking up at her. "I _like_ the color, but it's entirely too long."

"Entirely too long," Mother echoed, touching Amelia's cheek. "Where did you learn that?"

"Father says it," Amelia said, reaching for the scissors. "Everything's _entirely_ too long."

Mother sucked in her breath, snatching the scissors before Amelia could. "We will have to even this out, or Father will have a fit," she warned, tilting Amelia's chin up. " _Verstehst du_?"

"Yes," said Amelia, stubbornly, gritting his teeth, balling his fists at his sides. "But _why_?"

Mother sighed sadly, already snipping away at the back. "Because the doctor told us it would be better if we left your hair long for now. The doctor said a lot of other things, too, but I told him to go hang."

Amelia stared at his shoes, feeling lucky that those looked like the ones most other children wore.

"I don't want to be a girl," he said plaintively. "Mother, _why_ does everyone think I'm a girl?"

Mother bit her lip, leaning forward over Amelia's shoulder. "Because we gave you a girl's name," she said, her tone soft with regret. "We could not find a family name that worked for both, my darling."

"That was silly," said Amelia, as reasonably as he could, but he felt like crying. "Girls aren't like me."

Mother set the scissors aside on the counter and took Amelia by the shoulders, turning him to face her.

"I know they are not, may God forgive me," she said gently. "But can you understand that we want to keep you safe? Nobody here will tease you, but I cannot promise other people will not. Back when I was still a nurse, I saw someone who was different like you. They had a very hard life, Amelia."

"If you would let me be a boy," said Amelia, lifting his chin defiantly, "life would be easy."

"Perhaps it would be," said Mother, kissing his forehead. "I will make a bargain with you."

"Don't cry, Mother," Amelia said, touching her face with both hands. "What's a bargain?"

"A bargain is a deal," said Mother, firmly, "and here is my deal: we keep your hair this short for now, but _only_ this short, and you may wear trousers in two more years. Do you agree?"

Amelia added the numbers together in his head. "But I'll be _seven_!" he shrieked.

"I will have a word with Father," said Mother, winking at him. "Perhaps you will be six."

Amelia grinned at her, throwing his arms around her neck. "Can I see a mirror?" he asked.

Later that night, sitting alone in the nursery with a storybook, Amelia heard raised voices out in the parlor. He set the book aside and crept to the door, which opened while he attempted to listen through the keyhole. Father came into the room alone, studying Amelia with a concerned frown.

"Do you like my hair?" Amelia asked, nervous as Father knelt next to him. "Mother helped me."

"If you are going to be a boy," said Father, his tone serious, "then you will need to have a boy's name."

"I know," Amelia told him, feeling a rush of excitement. "There are lots. I don't know what to pick."

"Then you can be a boy once you find a name," Father said. "I will take care of the legal paperwork."

"I'll be Amelia like Grandma until I can find one," said Judge Brown's son. "I promise, Father."

 

**October 19, 1985**

Marty couldn't remember the last time one of Doc's inventions had _actually_ blown up in their faces. They spent a few stunned seconds blinking at the—well, to be honest, Marty wasn't even sure what the thing was or what it _did_ , but it looked kind of like an obscure car-part. He wasn't in the habit of asking questions unless Doc seemed like he was in the mood to share.

"That was less than ideal," Doc conceded, absently wiping a splash of oil off his cheek. "I don't know about yours," he said, grinning ruefully, glancing down, "but my shirt is probably ruined."

Marty threw his hands in the air. "I was just gonna ask about that, Doc. Thanks for clarifying."

"I'll buy you a new one," Doc said, promptly reaching for a couple of the clean rags he kept in reserve at all times, tossing one of them to Marty. "You can't win 'em all, right? We'll try again."

"I'd feel better about trying again if I knew what we were actually trying to accomplish here," Marty admitted, mopping at his face, "besides get these weird wires successfully run through—"

"I already told you, Marty," replied Doc, eternally patient. "It's part of a much bigger project that I'm currently working on off-site. _No_ , don't look at me like that, it's nothing dangerous. It's just that I needed to rent a storage locker because the primary component doesn't fit in this space."

Marty blinked at him, wiping off his arms. "You're not usually so tight-lipped, Doc. Am I gonna regret helping you with this one?" _But you sure are tight-lipped about other things_ , he thought, tossing the rag aside when he couldn't do much more with it. _Man of mystery_.

"My hope is quite the opposite, actually," Doc admitted, acknowledging defeat, dropping his rag on top of Marty's. "It's clear we should throw in the towel literally in addition to metaphorically, however," he sighed. "At least for today. Your mother will have a fit if I send you home looking like that. You've still got some spare clothes over in the back of the bottom bureau drawer, right?"

"Yeah, on your sage advice," said Marty, smiling in spite of himself, and went over to fetch them. While he was at it, he opened and shut drawers at random till he'd found where Doc kept all of his particulars: pants, shirts, underwear, and socks. He came back with two piles of clothes clutched to his chest. "You're gonna look more coordinated than you usually do, Doc. Is that all right?"

Doc averted his glance for the briefest of moments, accepting the pile of clothing. "I won't be a moment," he said, making a bee-line for the bathroom that hid just past the kitchenette portion of the garage-slash-house-slash-lab. "Thank you, Marty. Change wherever you like."

Marty nodded, watching him go, chewing the inside of his cheek. Underhanded of him to engineer a situational experiment, perhaps, but it was exactly the same thing that had happened the only other times he could remember them both getting so filthy that _not_ changing wouldn't have been an option. Doc had always fetched his clothes and gotten the hell out of common space. Marty wasn't the biggest fan of stripping even in front of family and friends, but it turned out that the one person around whom he felt comfortable enough didn't feel comfortable around _him_.

"I'm not going anywhere," Marty called after him, stripping out of his button-down shirt, t-shirt, and jeans as quickly as he could. Had it occurred to him that maybe Doc was attracted to him, but was way too noble to ever let that get in the way of their friendship? Sure. What surprised Marty was how little the possibility bothered him. Doc wasn't an _un_ attractive guy, and maybe it was even kind of flattering. Marty buttoned up his fresh shirt, wondering if he'd ever have the nerve—

_"Hey, McFly," said Needles, in the kind of tone that only ever meant trouble. "Got a second?"_

_Marty slammed his locker shut and turned to face him. "Yeah, okay," he sighed. "What is it?"_

_"Me and the guys have been planning a sort of...expedition for a while," Needles said casually. "And we feel like you might be just the guy for the job." He jabbed Marty's arm. "Interested?"_

_"Depends on what's in it for me," replied Marty, cautiously, "and I don't think leaving me alone at lunchtime for a week's gonna cut it this time, either. If it's something big, you'd better back off."_

_Needles raised both hands, palms facing outward, smiling benevolently. "You've got yourself a deal, McFly! If you prove you've got the balls to do this, we'll call it square. Respect, my man."_

_"Then what the hell do you want?" Marty asked, feeling defiant. "You'd better make it quick."_

_"You know that guy around town everybody talks about?" asked Needles. "The mad scientist?"_

_Marty nodded slowly. "That guy with the hair, yeah. Doc Brown, right? I've seen him. Hasn't everybody?" he asked, shrugging. "My parents say he mostly keeps to himself. He's an inventor."_

_"Well, get this," said Needles, leaning closer. "I heard he's dangerous. Builds bombs and shit."_

_Marty made a face at him, incredulous. "What, you want me to ask him to build you a bomb?"_

_"Nah, man," Needles continued, getting right up in Marty's face. "There's more. He might be some kinda circus sideshow freak. My grandpa's old man was this hot-shot doctor back in the day, right? Anyway, Gramps keeps talkin' about this story his dad used to tell him about the Brown family up in that huge house of theirs. They had a kid with some medical problem of the, uh, plumbing variety. That's how the hospital rumors went. Everybody tried to get a look before the baby went home, but great-grandpa didn't get there in time. He saw the charts, though. Some weird shit."_

_Marty raised his eyebrows, thoroughly baffled. "So what's this got to do with..." He paused, staring at the industrial-tile floor. "Oh. They only had one kid, so you're saying Doc Brown's gotta be..."_

_"Mad scientist with a grudge against society," said Needles. "No wonder he builds bombs, right?"_

_"We don't fucking know if he builds bombs, okay?" said Marty, losing his patience. He knew a thing or two about being bullied, and it mostly sucked ass. He was beginning to feel sorry for the guy. "I haven't got all day, and I'm starting to wonder what this could possibly have to do with me."_

_"You're small and you're fast, McFly," Needles said, tapping Marty's temple with two grubby, impatient fingers. "Have your number-crunching dork of a dad do the math."_

_"Leave my dad outta this," said Marty, fiercely. "What do you want me to do? Ask him for his medical charts and then convince him to take me home for a tour of his lab? Jesus, Needles."_

_"You've got the best shot of climbing that chain-link fence and getting in through a window, genius," Needles explained. "I hear he's not there most evenings, cruising around in that stupid van of his. He's got a dog, but it's not an attack dog or nothin'. Fuzzy, dumb sheepdog or whatever."_

_Marty swallowed, sorely tempted to take the dare if it meant Needles & Co. would finally fucking lay off him. "I'll do it," he said, determined, "but you've gotta hold up your end of the bargain."_

"Marty," Doc was saying, gently shaking him by the shoulders. " _Marty_. Are you all right?"

Marty snapped out of his reverie, his hands flying up to cover Doc's in relief. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"It looked to me like you were thinking about something unpleasant," said Doc, hesitantly, and released Marty with a reassuring pat. "If you're concerned you might get in trouble, then—"

"I'm not gonna get in trouble, Doc," Marty sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides. "My parents don't give a shit, you know that, as long as I'm home by ten. And, even then, they have no fucking clue what's going on when I sneak out. As long as I turn up for breakfast, everything's cool."

Doc gave a slow nod, tentatively convinced. "They usually give you permission to stay, too, when you ask," he reasoned, "so you're probably right. I can dispose of the ruined garments if you like."

Marty nodded, smiling at him. "Thanks, Doc," he said. "You're a real pal, you know that?" Inexplicably, Marty's thoughts turned back to what Needles had said, almost three years ago now, about Doc's family. The one mystery they'd most wanted Marty to investigate, he hadn't yet solved. "Hey, Doc?" he ventured, shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed Doc to fetch a trash bag; he picked his filthy clothes up off the floor and brought them along. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything within reason," Doc said, turning with a bag in hand. "What would you like to know?"

"Emmett's kind of an unusual name," said Marty, approaching the matter as obliquely as possible. "Your parents were both German immigrants, right? Emmett doesn't sound much like a German name, and, unless I'm wrong, it would've been kinda old-fashioned even when you were born. Like, I think of pioneers and settlers, maybe the Old West. What's the deal? How'd you end up with it?"

Unexpectedly, Doc closed his eyes for a few seconds; the set of his jaw changed. For a moment, Marty was afraid the guy was going to let him have it, but his expression softened just as quickly as it had gone severe. He opened his eyes, regarding Marty with a far-away look of his own. "I ended up with it," he said, "because someone who inspired me a great deal was gracious enough to let me have it. Will that suffice?"

"Far out," Marty replied, swallowing hard. "So you were named after a family friend. I can dig."

Doc nodded, reaching to take the soiled clothes off Marty's hands. "Something like that," he said.

 

**June 12, 1928**

Amelia fidgeted in his hard metal fold-out seat, impatient for the trapeze act to end. All of that leaping and swinging around that high off the ground made him anxious, and when the dashing, handsome man slipped and dangled from his lovely partner's hand, his heart seized in terror. Intellectually, Amelia understood that it was all part of the show, but that didn't prevent him from experiencing a genuine fight-or-flight reaction. His mother squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"It's all right," Edith whispered, offering him their bag of popcorn. "Theatrics, my darling."

"I _know_ it's for effect, Mother," Amelia hissed back. He fussed with his hair, pushing back a few strands that had fallen to his forehead in spite of the pomade he'd found in his father's cabinet. "I've been reading about physiological responses, and we can't just turn _off_ —"

" _Shhh_ ," hissed Edith, patiently, pointing up at the gentleman, who'd regained his footing on the high-wire and was following his lady counterpart back to safety. "The show is almost over."

"Thank goodness for _that_ ," Amelia muttered under his breath, arms folded across his chest.

The air inside the tent was stale with dust, sweat, burnt-sugar sweetness, and several hundred audience-members' held breaths. Amelia had been to see John Robinson's Circus several years before, so he remembered the response protocol quite well. When the performers toed their way back out into the spotlight and bowed, one was obliged to get to one's feet and applaud. He did.

"That was incredible, was it not?" Edith asked as they applauded. "It must take such courage to be up there for so long without a safety net."

"I don't mind heights," Amelia replied under his breath, "but I _do_ mind falling."

"If your father catches you out on that ledge again," Edith sighed as the applause simmered to nothingness, "there will be hell to pay. _Must_ you keep ruining your handsome suits?"

"It's the only place in Hill Valley I can hear myself think," Amelia insisted, rising. "Until the clock chimes, anyway, but I'm willing to put up with some clanging at close range if I get to be alone."

"Perhaps we shouldn't go just yet," said Edith, setting a hand on Amelia's arm. "Look down there."

Even as a goodly number of audience members milled about and filed out, from the dimness just beyond the edge of the spotlight, a lone, timid figure carrying a broom edged into view. Judging from the outlandish garb and the stark white face-paint, it was just some clown act designed to pacify the masses until the next show in the ring was ready to start. Amelia paused, squinting at the clown as he began to forlornly sweep at the periphery of the spotlight. Try as the clown might, the brightness wouldn't cooperate with his agitated, ungainly strokes. Not that many people were paying attention, but those who did so mostly weren't laughing. Amelia felt a pang of regret.

"We should go down," he said, tugging on his mother's sleeve. "Nobody appreciates him."

They watched the clown—Weary Willie, another woman told Edith as she brushed past, and then proceeded to ask why in the world she'd take her daughter out dressed like _that_ —from the edge of the ring for a solid twenty minutes or so. Even as Amelia's eyes continued to sting at the stranger's careless comment, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the display of sheer, calculated _determination_. The man's carriage and body language were exactly on-point.

Amelia and Edith were the only people left to applaud Willie when he finally took his bow.

"People are missing the point," said Amelia. "His act isn't for laughs; it's to make them _think_. You can't sweep up light. Nobody appreciates those who attempt the impossible."

Edith made a soft, pained sound in the back of her throat. Instead of responding, she raised her hand and waved it wildly in the air. Amelia couldn't for the life of him figure out what she was doing until the spotlight had dimmed somewhat and Willie, the clown, was walking toward them.

Except it wasn't the clown now, not to Amelia's perception: it was the gentleman from the trapeze.

"You are versatile, sir," said Edith, extending her hand across the barrier. "Truly well performed."

"Excuse me, but have we met?" said the trapeze artist in clown garb, winking as he shook Edith's hand. "Forgive me such familiarity. Emmett Kelly's my name. And you might be—?"

"Edith Brown," said Amelia's mother, withdrawing her gloved fingers. "This is my son."

Mr. Kelly looked Amelia up and down. "Mighty fine to meet you," he said with a charming smile, offering his hand. "You have a lovely mother here, and I can see the best of her's rubbed off."

Amelia shook Mr. Kelly's hand, and then smoothed back his hair. "Yes, sir," he said. "It has."

"Tell me," said Mr. Kelly, going down on one knee so he was at eye-level with Amelia. "Could any aspect of today's performances use any improvement? I'm always looking to up my game, you see."

"As exciting as the trapeze looks, sir," said Amelia, "it's the clown act that you've got a knack for."

Mr. Kelly's expression went from cordial to strained for the briefest of moments, but his affable demeanor returned. "Let me tell you something, young man," he said conspiratorially. "I'm _this close_ to convincing the management to let me go full time with the clowning. Before that, I was a cartoonist. I help sometimes with the signs. They know where their bread's buttered."

"I know that feeling too well," Amelia sighed. "I want to be a scientist, but my father doesn't like it one bit. He thinks that running experiments and inventing things isn't practical at _all_."

"Tell that to Nikola Tesla or to Mr. Graham Bell," said Mr. Kelly. "Son, what's your name?"

Oh, there was no use in hiding it: Amelia was _smitten_ with this man and his gumption. He represented everything that Amelia could possibly hope to achieve where his own aims were concerned, and possibly _more_. What good was courage if you couldn't forego the net?

"My name is Emmett," he said, ignoring Edith's gasp. "Just like yours. Small world, isn't it?"

 

**November 16, 1955 / June 13, 1938**

"Be straight with me, Doc," Marty sighed, too tired to think about what he was saying, walking a slow circuit of the repaired DeLorean. One glance at Doc's host of clocks on the wall (nowhere near as numerous as his collection in 1985, not _yet_ ) told Marty they'd been working for five solid hours since their last break. It was just past midnight. "Is this thing really gonna run?"

Doc shrugged wearily, getting to his feet, patting the hood as if in reassurance. "The last few ignition tests suggest that the repairs have been successful. I would never have been able to accomplish this without that letter from my future self," he added, patting his breast pocket.

"Think I could take it with me?" Marty asked. "I guess I want him—uh, _you_ —to see."

"I'll know you got the letter, Marty," said Doc, hesitantly, "by the mere fact that you're present."

"Sorry," Marty sighed, stifling a yawn. "That was selfish of me. Keep it as a reminder, Doc."

"I'll miss you when you're gone again," Doc admitted candidly, crossing to the same side of the DeLorean as Marty. "Inasmuch as I was ecstatic that we'd succeeded, I'd begun to feel a kind of despair under the elation. If I'm honest, you showing up only minutes after I'd sent you back was..."

"Heavy?" asked Marty, teasingly, giving him a half-smile that he hoped would disperse the tension.

"Something like that," Doc said, and Marty felt his heart skip a beat. "We should get some sleep."

They returned to the house in companionable silence, so close that their elbows brushed as they walked. Doc held the door for Marty like the perfect gentleman that he was ( _Jesus_ , Marty thought, _and I'm enjoying it_ ). Once they'd made their way upstairs, Marty went straight to the guest room and muddled sleepily into the too-large cotton pajamas that he—or at least some _version_ of him—had been sleeping in for over a week.

He hadn't meant to walk in on Doc in the bathroom, but his haziness and the lack of a thrown bolt made that decision for him in short order. Doc was already in his pajama bottoms, thank goodness, but he was shirtless, and that was more of Doc's skin than Marty had _ever_ seen.

"I'm sorry," Doc said, reaching for the pajama shirt he'd draped over the towel rack. "I ought to have locked the door. If you'll give me a moment—"

"That's a nasty-looking scar," Marty said, too tired to consider that expressing concern for something that looked like it had long since healed might not be the most tactful course of action. "Just below your belly," he clarified, and that was when Doc turned to face him, brows knit in curiosity even as his eyes radiated defeat. "I never knew about that. Before, I mean. In the future."

Doc considered this for a moment, and then buttoned his shirt, hiding the scar. "My appendix burst when I was eighteen," he said. "It was a close call. The treacherous thing nearly killed me."

Marty nodded, stepping over to the sink to grab the toothbrush Doc had provided for him. "Well, I'm glad it didn't," he said, reaching for the toothpaste, "because I'm pretty fond of you, Doc."

Doc nodded, his eyes fixed on the tile floor. "The sentiment's returned, Marty," he said. "Have a good night, and I'll see you in the morning. We have a big day ahead of us down at the drive-in."

Marty wasn't _so_ tired, it turned out, that he couldn't jerk off to the thought of Doc, worrisome scar and troubled eyes and all, warm and attentive against him. He cleaned himself up and turned off the light, climbing guiltily back into bed. He'd sleep better for having taken the time to let off steam, but he couldn't help but think that there'd be complications awaiting him in 1885.

 _You're falling in love with your best friend,_ he thought, drifting off. _Son of a bitch._

They reconvened in the kitchen around eight in the morning, both of them dressed. Doc was frying eggs and piling scorched toast onto a plate, so Marty took pity on him and started transferring stuff to the table. They ate at a leisurely pace, reviewing the departure plan one last time.

One stop-off at a costume shop later, it was clear that Doc's idea of what people wore on the frontier was even _worse_ than the undoubtedly inaccurate costumes you saw in the movies. Marty changed as quickly as he could manage, disgusted by the condition of the drive-in restroom.

As Marty moved on to tackling the boots, Doc called out to him anxiously, "The clothes fit?"

"Yeah!" Marty shouted back, jamming his toes home with a hiss. "Everything except the boots, Doc. They're kind of tight. I dunno, are you _sure_ this stuff is authentic?" He pulled the boots back off in frustration, shoving his feet back into his Nikes. They'd have to do.

"Of course!" Doc replied, his faith seemingly unshakeable. "Haven't you ever seen a Western?"

"Yeah, I have, Doc," Marty sighed, peering at the brightness of sand beyond the stretch of concrete underfoot, emerging into late-morning sun, "but Clint Eastwood never wore anything like this."

"Clint _who_?" Doc asked, perplexed, and then went back to his last minute fussing.

"That's right," said Marty, pointing at the posters for _Revenge of the Creature_ and _Tarantula_. "You haven't heard of him yet."

"Marty, you have to wear the boots," Doc said, ignoring the impromptu history lesson. "You can't wear those futuristic things in 1885. You shouldn't even be wearing them in 1955."

"All right, Doc, _look_ ," Marty sighed. "Once I get there I'll put them on, I promise."

"Okay, I think we're about ready," Doc said. "I put gas in the tank, your future clothes are packed, and, just in case, fresh batteries for your walkie-talkies. Oh, and what about that floating device?"

"Hoverboard," Marty corrected him, not quite suppressing a smile. God, he'd really miss this.

"All right," Doc replied, picking up the hoverboard. He packed it with Marty's other supplies.

"You know, Doc," Marty said, "it's gonna be a hell of long walk back to Hill Valley from here."

"It's still the safest plan," Doc insisted. "After all, we can't risk sending you back to a populated area or to a spot that's geographically unknown. You don't want to crash into some trees that once existed in the past. This is all completely open country, so you'll have plenty of run-out space when you arrive! Remember: where you're going, there are no roads. There's a small cave over there, which will be a perfect place to hide the time vehicle." He checked the DeLorean's progress. "Well, the new time-circuit control tubes are warmed up! Time circuits _on_. I wrote the letter on September first, so we'll send you back the very next day. September second, that's a Wednesday. I get shot on Monday the seventh, so you have five days to locate me. According to my letter, I'm a blacksmith, so I probably have a shop somewhere. All you have to do is drive the time vehicle directly towards that screen, accelerating at eighty-eight miles per hour."

"Wait a minute, Doc," said Marty, hesitantly, indicating the colorful, yet dubious mural that Doc clearly _wasn't_ seeing. "If I drive straight toward the screen, I'll crash into those Indians."

"Marty, you're not thinking fourth-dimensionally!" replied Doc, infectiously enthusiastic, his tone reassuring. "You'll instantly be transported to 1885, and those Indians won't even be there."

"Right," Marty said, stepping as close to Doc as he dared. What he wanted and what was advisable were two different things, but he couldn't risk letting this moment pass without saying goodbye.

"Well, good luck," replied Doc, his tone pensive enough to give Marty a shred of hope. "For both of our sakes. See you in the future." He closed the remaining distance, patting Marty's shoulder.

"You mean the past," said Marty, weakly, hating the fact he lacked the courage to do anything else.

"Exactly!" Doc exclaimed, high-spirited, dashing off to one side with a familiar pearl-handled pistol in hand. "Happy trails, Marty!" he shouted, and then softened his voice. "Ready? _Marty_?"

"Ready!" Marty called, getting into the DeLorean, starting up the ignition. He slammed the door.

"Set!" Doc shouted, muffled now that Marty was ensconced in the DeLorean's steel framework.

"Hi ho, Silver," Marty muttered under his breath, starting the ignition. _This had better work_ , he thought, shifting the DeLorean into gear. _Wherever the hell I end up, I'd better find you._

Doc fired a single shot into the air, and Marty _floored_ it. "Vaya con Dios!" Doc shouted.

 _I know you're making a reference to that ridiculous song that keeps playing on the radio_ , Marty thought, his anxiety escalating as he continued to accelerate, _but, seriously, don't even joke about God. Even if He does exist, there's no way He'd be able to help me now._

At the halfway point, at right around seventy miles per hour, Marty hit what was either an unusually large desert quail he'd flushed out of its burrow or the world's _worst_ pothole. The DeLorean shuddered as it hit the ground again, knocking him sideways off the steering wheel; his elbow hit the keypad _hard_. Shaking, he recovered, grasping the wheel again for all he was worth.

Marty screamed as the mural, horses and Indians and all the rest, dissolved in a blinding flash.

 _This is reassuring,_ he thought several seconds later, finding he could breathe again as he coasted into wide, open blue with nothing but sand and rocks visible for miles. _Close call_. He hit the brakes hard, gasping as the vehicle shuddered again and coasted to a halt.

One broken fuel line and a lot of cursing later, Marty located the cave exactly where Doc had said it would be and pushed the DeLorean safely into hiding. He inspected his supplies, lingering over the boots, but he couldn't bring himself to change his footwear given the long, rough walk ahead. He knew enough about the direction of Hill Valley in relation to the sandstone formations off in the distance that he had no trouble setting his sights on the horizon and trudging forward.

The first sign that something was amiss was the _paved road_ he came across after about fifteen minutes of walking.

The second sign was a _truck_ labeled Hill Valley Mercantile Deliveries that came rattling along out of nowhere at a leisurely pace. It looked like one of those nineteen-teens or nineteen-twenties jobs you were always seeing in gangster flicks. The truck slowed as it approached Marty.

 _Did they have trucks and roads this early?_ Marty wondered. _Did I miss something?_

"Hey," said the young man at the wheel of the truck, peering at Marty with eyes that were a startling, pale, _familiar_ shade of blue. "What're you doing all the way out here in those clothes? Did you get lost on your way to a fancy dress party? You'll catch heat-stroke!"

"Um," said Marty, uncomfortably, realizing that the man was dressed in a suit and hat that were nothing like the clothes he'd seen in the 1880s photographs he and Doc had examined in the library after hours. "Maybe you're right about the heat-stroke. Can you remind me what day it is?"

"That's easy," said the young man, grinning wryly. "It's June thirteenth. Need a ride into town?"

"Yeah," Marty sighed, feigning relief; the truth was that there'd been alarm bells clanging in his head ever since the stranger had said _June_. "Thanks, ah, sir. That'd be _great_."

"Hop right in," replied the young man, throwing open the passenger door as Marty came around the opposite side of the car. "Sorry for the mess. It's my old man's vehicle. My name is Arthur."

"So I guess you're making some delivery runs for your dad, is that it?" Marty asked, settling in.

"William McFly, the head honcho," Arthur agreed. "That'd be him. Seatbelt on, please."

" _McFly_?" Marty echoed. "I mean, uh— _yeah_ , William. I've heard of him."

Arthur regarded Marty with distinct worry. "Did you trip and hit your head out there?"

"I don't think so," Marty sighed, waving at the wheel. "Go ahead and drive. I'm Marty."

"Maybe I should take you to the doctor," replied Arthur, putting the truck back in gear.

"If I've got heat-stroke, I think it's starting to clear," Marty said, "but there's one more thing—"

"Just call me Artie," said Arthur, turning to smile at him. "Rhymes with your name, doesn't it?"

"What year is it?" Marty blurted, staring wildly out the window. There were actual buildings coming into view now, and they weren't the wooden structures he'd seen in those crumbling photographs. They were modern-looking edifices. This was actual _civilization_.

"It's 1938," said Artie, reaching over to pat Marty on the shoulder, "and I think you need help."

 _Oh my God_ , Marty thought numbly. _I hit the keypad right before lift-off. Shit._

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?" Artie prompted, coasting to a stop at the—oh, Jesus _Christ_ , Marty wasn't imagining this—the traffic light. "You look pretty terrible."

"I need to go straight to the courthouse," Marty said, his brain on autopilot. "Take me there."

"What's at the courthouse?" Artie asked, advancing once the light turned green. "Your party?"

"I just need to look at it," Marty said, trying his level best not to feel sick. "I need to check..."

On cue, the Hill Valley courthouse loomed into view as they approached the next intersection.

"I'll leave you here, if that's all right?" Artie asked, pulling up to the curb. "Will _you_ be?"

"I'll figure something out," Marty sighed, opening the passenger-side door. "Like I always do."

"We're in the phone book if you hit a tight spot," Artie offered. "We're the only McFlys in town."

 _Not anymore_ , Marty thought, but he tipped his hat in acknowledgment. "Thanks, Artie."

"Any time," said Marty's twenty-something-year-old grandfather before driving off through town.

"I'm screwed," Marty muttered, crossing the street as fast as he could. He dashed through the break in the hedge, racing up the walkway to the courthouse stairs. The building was as complete as he'd always remembered it, no sign of the clock-face and skeletal edifice he'd been expecting.

What he _hadn't_ been expecting was for somebody to smack into him as he attempted to enter the building. Stunned, Marty blinked at the scattered folders that the perpetrator had dropped before getting on his knees, mumbling apologies, to help the red-haired young man retrieve them.

"Don't touch those! They're very sensitive legal documents," gasped the stranger, his voice pitched slightly higher than Marty would've expected it to be, his tone curiously strained. "Only sworn officers of the court can touch those. Pop—I mean, _Judge Brown_ —says so!"

Time slowed, Marty's entire world tilting on its axis as he stared into another familiar set of eyes.

"You wouldn't happen to mean Judge Erhardt Brown, would you?" he asked, picking up a folder.

"Yes," sighed the young man, resigned to Marty's assistance. "How do _you_ know him?"

 _Well, Doc,_ Marty thought, concentrating on their task. _Looks like I found you._

 

**July 30, 1938**

"Damn," Emmett muttered around his cigarette, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead. This particular component in his latest project—an Electrokinetic Levitator that he _hoped_ to have ready for the Science Expo in October—simply wasn't cooperating. He set down his pliers, steadying the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger in order to take a deep, frustrated drag.

Just then, Marty walked into the lab with a crate under one arm and a rolled up brown paper sack under the other. Even as Emmett's pulse settled (he'd feared it would turn out to be his mother), Marty stared, his expression wide-eyed and unreadable for a few seconds before he set down the crate and came over to Emmett's work-space. By now, he was frowning rather severely.

"Hey," Marty said, his tone steeped more in concern than anger. "I didn't know you smoked."

Emmett shrugged, blowing smoke in the opposite direction, sticking the cigarette back in his mouth before resuming his work with the pliers. "In case you hadn't noticed, my voice never really settled down. It's too high for my liking. I've heard the judicious application of cigarettes can help."

"Jeez, are those Lucky Strikes?" asked Marty, picking up the half-smoked pack. "A buddy of mine smokes these. I didn't realize they were around way back— _ah_. Way out here."

"It's a nationally marketed brand, Marty," Emmett scoffed. "We have the same products out here on the West Coast as you had back on the East Coast. Do you really find us so uncivilized?"

"Nah," Marty sighed, setting the pack back down. "The opposite, actually." He glanced surreptitiously at Emmett, apparently not about to let the matter drop. "You shouldn't smoke."

Irritated, Emmett plucked the cigarette from between his lips and stubbed it out, pitching it on the floor. "Some people say there are more risks than benefits, but there hasn't been enough research."

"Would you believe me if I told you that one day there _will_ be?" Marty asked, unpacking the brown sack, which had a couple of sandwiches in it. "My family—when _they_ were still alive, I mean—knew just enough smokers who got really sick later in life to be cautious."

Emmett frowned, considering Marty's handsome profile as he took one of the sandwiches and went back over to where he'd abandoned the crate. "It's kind of you to be so concerned about my welfare," he said tentatively, sorry to have been so dismissive. "It must've been incredibly hard, losing your family to illness. I can't imagine watching anyone fade away like that. You're home now."

Marty shrugged, tugging Emmett's chair out from the desk so he could sit, watch, and eat while Emmett worked. "I'm home for as long as your parents will tolerate me," he corrected Emmett.

Emmett felt his hackles rise a little at that, but he channeled the energy into the task at hand. "My father respects people who are willing to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and look for honest work," he reminded Marty, sticking his fingertip in his mouth after managing to prick it on a sharp filament. "As for my mother, she's an astute woman and sometimes taciturn, but the truth is that she couldn't help but fall for you." He swallowed. "She thinks you're _adorable_."

Marty froze in the middle of devouring his sandwich. "Thanks, I think?" he said, blushing.

"I wouldn't worry," Emmett continued, hoping fiercely that the heat in his cheeks didn't mean _he'd_ begun to blush, too. "She's only got eyes for Father. They're still madly in love."

"Actually, I can see that," Marty sighed, wrapping the remainder of his sandwich, apparently not hungry anymore. "It's a wonderful thing to see. My folks weren't always like that, but they..." He paused. " Learned to appreciate each other more in time. Hey, how did your parents meet?" he asked, changing the subject, and pulled the crate up into his lap. "I'd like to hear about that."

Emmett shrugged, letting his gaze drift from Marty's pensive, arresting eyes back to his work.

"My father's family, the Von Brauns, got here in 1908; they came from Lamdstedt. My mother's family, the Lathrops, had already been here for almost a decade. My mother was raised in Germany, too, but her father was an Englishman who'd met my grandmother, Amelia, while she'd been at nursing school in London. They settled back in Aachen, which is where my mother's family were from. My mother trained in nursing just like her mother, and my father's passion had always been for law. They met when my father came home from law school out East, and they bonded over having grown up in German-speaking immigrant families. That's really all there is to know."

"Did they teach you any German?" Marty asked, setting the crate on the desk, reaching into it; Emmett was too preoccupied to look at what he was lifting out. "Don't forget your sandwich."

"I won't," said Emmett, brushing him off, determined to twist the wire into submission. "And I learned a little bit as a small child, but, no, they didn't make any concentrated effort. They insist on speaking English at home unless it's some kind of discussion they don't want me to overhear." He frowned, brushing at some dust that had gotten in his way. "There were lots of those," he muttered.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Marty, over the sound of flipping pages; it was now clear that he'd brought some kind of book down from the house. "It would've been cool to grow up bilingual."

"Temperature had nothing to do with it," Emmett replied. "In their view, it was expediency."

"Wait," Marty said, flipping pages a bit faster. " _Wait_ a minute. Do you have a sister?"

Emmett's heart stopped as he glanced up, realizing all too late what Marty had open in his lap.

"No," he said as calmly as he could manage, setting aside the pliers with deliberation. "Why?"

"These baby pictures. The farther back I get, there are all of these shots labeled..." Marty looked up at Emmett, his expression reflecting startlement as profound as Emmett felt. "Labeled _Amelia Lathrop Brown_ ," he said softly. "Wasn't that your grandmother's name?"

Emmett closed his eyes, nodding. At least the reaction he was getting as Marty slowly put the pieces together wasn't outright _horror_. There was a reason he'd been schooled at home, had filled his days with science and model-building and playing Cowboys and Indians with Clarissa. There was a reason he'd closed himself off even more tightly than his parents had when it came to the prospect of what was now set before him.

Marty was so beautiful Emmett's heart _ached_.

"I started doing research as soon as I was old enough to understand what was going on," Emmett said tautly, tilting his chin down so that the wire was all he'd see when he opened his eyes. "My mother helped, of course, because she knew more about medical matters than anyone else in the family. My father was just educated enough not to be unfamiliar with—" he paused, considering his phrasing options carefully "—the fact that some people are just born different. I'm fortunate they accepted me."

"I don't know anything about medicine," Marty said at length, his tone impressively calm. "I don't technically know anything about what kind of different you're talking about, either, Emmett, but I can _guess_. If it makes things any easier on you, can I say it so that you don't have to?"

Emmett nodded, chewing the inside of his lip, and tweaked the wire again. "It might help, sure."

"When you were born, everybody thought you were a girl, didn't they," Marty stated carefully.

"The truth is that I could be any one of a couple different case-studies," Emmett said, feeling his chest flood with relief, but he still couldn't bring himself to meet Marty's eyes. "The reason for that is quite simply that my mother wouldn't let them cut me open... _or_ cut anything off. I'm sorry to be so crude, but there you have it. Medical professionals found my, _er_ , phenotype as confusing as anyone else would if they were to see it. I've read as much as I can, and _I'm_ not even sure what's going on. The only thing I did know, and from an early age, was that I _wasn't_ a girl. And my parents took that insistence with remarkably good grace."

"I'm not sure how anybody could think you're anything _but_ a guy," Marty said reasonably, although he sounded slightly shaken now, and Emmett found he couldn't blame him for the display of nerves. If he was feeling anything _close_ to what Emmett was feeling on the attraction front, then there were bound to be conflicting emotions behind it. "You know who you are."

"The medically accepted term is _hermaphrodite_ , although I couldn't tell you if that's one-hundred percent accurate in my case," Emmett forged on, deciding that full disclosure might be the better part of valor even if it meant losing Marty. "Generally, this would indicate that, internally, I've got both sets of organs—that is, aspects of both the male _and_ female reproductive systems—and, while a recent external exam suggests I might well have an underdeveloped uterus, they're not sure what the gonads themselves are. I _suspect_ it's ovaries that could possibly have some testicular tissue in the mix; otherwise, the case studies in which I find resonance are Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia of the non-salt-wasting variety, thank goodness for _that_. My life would've been in danger otherwise. I've decided I might want surgery for the uterus issue, because the last thing I want to risk is starting to _bleed_. I've been something of a late bloomer, so my mother insists that I ought to wait till my eighteenth birthday, which, actually, is a month and six days away." He finally glanced up. "I can show you the literature I've accrued if you'd like."

"My eighteenth was last month," said Marty, contemplatively. "The day before I rolled into town." He got up from where he'd been sitting and came over to stand across from Emmett over his work-space. His expression unreadable, he picked up the untouched sandwich and held it out to Emmett. If he couldn't find words for his reaction, then it was certainly better than—

Emmett had never been kissed before, and he certainly hadn't expected to be kissed right on the heels of making a confession such as _this_. He hummed into Marty's mouth, brushing his fingertips lightly against Marty's cheeks. He probably tasted like smoke, which was embarrassing.

"As heavy as all of this is," Marty said, his voice tantalizingly rough, "you really should eat."

"You keep using that word, and I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," Emmett sputtered, but he didn't pull away. "The organs in question aren't any denser than the rest of me. Or, if they are, then I've certainly grown accustomed to carrying the weight—"

"Doc?" asked Marty, setting down the sandwich, bringing his hands up to cover Emmett's.

"Yes?" Emmett replied, still scarcely able to believe that this hadn't gone awry. "And _why_ do you keep calling me that? This has got to be the third or fourth time you've done it."

"Can I kiss you again?" Marty asked, bumping Emmett's nose with his own. "Only if you want—"

"Yes, please," Emmett sighed, leaning forward, closing his eyes in bliss. "As for my question, you can ignore that. I _am_ thoroughly knowledgeable about my physiology, aren't I?"

 

**September 5, 1938**

Marty sat on the edge of Emmett's bed. Lacking anything better to do while he waited, he inspected his hands (scrubbed raw, almost, with soap and hot water not ten minutes before) and stared at the ornately moulded ceiling by turns. He couldn't hear much activity downstairs; he had seen Edith escort the last of their guests to the door on his way upstairs.

 _Wait in my room_ , Emmett had hissed to him as he'd passed. _I won't be long_.

Emmett's party wouldn't have been anything to brag about by 1985 standards, but there _had_ been more people in attendance than Marty would have expected. Aside from the Brown family, Clarissa, and Marty, those in attendance had been colleagues of Erhardt's from the courthouse and friends of Edith's from various of her social circles. Many of these had brought their children, some around Emmett's age and some younger, but Marty couldn't help but notice that Emmett hadn't mixed with them. He'd stuck close by Marty's side; not being able to kiss him had been torture.

Marty lifted his feet and unlaced his shoes, loosening them until they dropped effortlessly to the floor. His jacket, he'd already set to one side; he'd draped it carefully across the wooden chair in front of the window. After that, he'd drawn both sets of curtains and gone back to the bed.

He loosened the top few buttons of his shirt, running unsteady fingers along his collarbone. Inasmuch as he'd successfully been hiding marks beneath his collar for weeks, Emmett seemed to have a natural talent for pretending that _he_ didn't have just as many under his own.

Kissing in the laboratory had lost its charm, as had Marty's stubborn refusal to permit Emmett to undress him further. _September's not that far off_ , Marty had insisted, gasping; Emmett had the art of pouting down to a science. _For my birthday, then,_ Emmett had challenged. Marty had nodded in agreement, kissing him. _Not out here_ , he'd whispered, smoothing Emmett's mussed hair. _I want you in my bed. Or yours. I don't care._

Whatever other certainties Marty had found it necessary to mourn, the fact that he was stranded was no longer chief among them. How much _time_ he'd have with Emmett until he vanished had become his primary concern. He wondered if he technically ought to have vanished already, or if he'd still be born once Artie and Sylvia's infant son, George, was grown and had met Lorraine.

Marty wondered if _any_ of his family history as he knew it would ever be the same. He scooted a bit further down and tugged back the corner of sheet and duvet, exposing the pillow. He wondered how far they'd get, or if his nerves or Emmett's would interfere. He wondered—

Emmett burst into the room with his bowtie undone and his jacket draped over one arm, slamming the door behind him. "That was approximately like being held hostage by the entire population of my father's annual holiday office party," he sighed, kicking his shoes off before turning to throw the bolt. "I _did_ manage to corner Mother in the kitchen and remind her what she'd promised with regard to surgery. She wasn't thrilled with such a casual reminder, but she said she'd get the ball rolling with Dr. Kushner, so I guess that's progre— _oh_ ," he sighed. "Marty, I'm sorry."

Marty gave Emmett his best attempt at a smile. "I just don't wanna think about you going under the knife right now, okay?" he admitted, patting the spot next to him on the mattress. "Come here."

Emmett sat close to Marty, not even hesitating to slip a possessive arm around his waist. "The coast's clear," he murmured, leaning to nuzzle Marty's earlobe. "They've gone out. They're stir-crazy from having been cooped up with us for the last two hours. I'm glad they threw a weeknight dinner party instead of an all-day affair over the weekend. That would have been—"

"Emmett, we'd better hope this movie they're going to see is a long one," Marty sighed, closing his eyes, leaning into the attention. "I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm _nervous_ about this, all right?"

"What could _you_ possibly have to be nervous about?" Emmett asked, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to the side of Marty's neck before biting down gently. "You'll be just fine. You're normal."

"You're normal, too, okay?" Marty insisted, running his fingers through Emmett's hair, swiftly losing hold of whatever façade he'd been trying to maintain. "Just a different _kind_ of normal, which kind of, _um_...brings me to why I'm nervous. If what you've got works... _differently_ , I mean..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I know you can get hard; I've _felt_ it. But I don't know if..." He made a helpless gesture. "I don't wanna mess this up."

"Oh, I can _come_ ," Emmett said, lowering his voice, nipping Marty's earlobe. "Just not quite the same way you do. There's nothing to clean up, and if you play your cards right..." He palmed Marty through his trousers, sighing against Marty's neck. "You'll get more than one out of me."

Marty snapped his head in Emmett's direction, catching Emmett's mouth in a kiss. "Sign me up," he breathed, sucking at Emmett's lower lip until Emmett squirmed where he sat. He tugged Emmett's shirt free of his trousers, undoing the buttons from bottom to top until he could spread it open, admiring Emmett's flat, flushed chest and peaked nipples. Who _could_ mistake Emmett for anything but a guy, anyway, if that's what he knew in his heart he was? Except for his legs, he was pretty hairless, and Marty knew he didn't shave (plucking the odd hair from his chin with tweezers was all Marty had ever seen him do). "Take your pants off," he said. "If you, um, want to."

"Thought you'd never ask," Emmett said, complying without hesitation. Marty slipped off the edge of the bed and got on his knees; tugging down Emmett's trousers and underwear once he'd pushed them as far as they'd go. "You'll see why I'm considered anomalous, though. The size of—"

"Jeez, Emmett, are you kidding?" Marty asked, stroking Emmett's thighs, coaxing them apart with shaking fingers. Emmett was aroused already, yeah, no surprise there; blood flow to the area had definitely seen to that. "I don't care what those medical people think. Your dick is _perfect_. I can blow you without having to worry about my shitty gag reflex, how awesome is that?" Marty leaned in and nuzzled him, letting his tongue dip gently beneath the head while he explored the entrance beneath with a tentative brush of his finger. "You're wet. Do you want me to touch..."

"Maybe..." Emmett moaned sharply when Marty took all of him gently between his lips. "Just a finger or two," he gasped. "Or your tongue. I don't know if I'd enjoy penetration, but I think..."

"It'd be too much of a risk till you've had surgery," Marty murmured, pressing a kiss to Emmett's hard-on before taking it all back in his mouth. He sucked, enjoying the way Emmett squirmed.

"Exactly," managed Emmett, flopping onto his back. "Ah, I had no _idea_ this would feel..."

Marty readjusted his position, lifting Emmett's knees up and onto his shoulders. Maybe he'd never gotten to do this to anybody back when it would've counted as social capital—or, in fact, _ever_ —but he'd fantasized enough about various positions to know he found the idea of going down on somebody like this hot as _fuck_. He resumed sucking, dipping his tongue lower every once in a while (but not quite _inside_ him, not yet), giving Emmett his undivided attention. Jesus, Emmett's fingers were tangled in Marty's hair; he seemed so _close_ —

"Marty," Emmett whimpered, seizing under Marty, his hips snapping forward in surprise.

" _Shhh_ , hey," Marty mumbled, letting Emmett slip from his mouth, stroking him through the rest of the tremors to see if that would make any difference. "There's one," he said, startled that the way he was working Emmett in his fist coaxed a much louder cry from him.

"The stairs," said Emmett, weakly, clutching at Marty's forearms. " _Shit_. Somebody's—"

They broke apart, scrambling for Emmett's clothing on the floor. They'd gotten Emmett back in his underwear and trousers by the time the door opened, although it was still too late as Edith's key turned in the lock. Marty attempting to button Emmett up looked just as bad as the opposite.

Edith stared at them—Marty kneeling on the floor, Emmett seated on the bed—and set her lips in a grim, tense line. "Emmett," she said. "Get dressed. A word with you in Marty's room, _bitte_."

Emmett said nothing, but he did as he was told. He fastened his trousers while Marty got to his feet and sat down beside him, unable to meet Edith's eyes. Emmett squeezed Marty's shoulder, got up, and left the room, brushing past his mother with a surprising measure of defiance.

"I will send my husband to deal with _you_ ," she told Marty, scathingly, and left.

For all the good it would do him, Marty buttoned his shirt up as far as it would go. Two minutes later, Erhardt entered the room with a curious lack of pomp and circumstance, his expression uncomfortably neutral. He regarded Marty where he sat, scratching his bearded chin.

"Stand up!" he ordered gruffly, so Marty did as he was told. "You have something to explain?"

"Yes," said Marty, faintly, realizing that this was probably the end of the line. He had nothing to lose but Emmett, and, God, he'd _surely_ lost him now. "I understand that you'll think this is wrong, but I'm in love with your son. I never thought less of him because everybody said he was different. In fact, I think more of him just for that, Your Honor. I think the _world_ of him, do you understand? Go ahead. Throw me out, press charges against me, whatever," continued Marty, desperately, "but _please_ don't punish your son for something _I_ did wrong!"

Erhardt, on the other hand, seemed to have tuned out several sentences back. "My son?" he echoed.

"Your son," Marty repeated firmly. "He's never been anyone else to me but exactly who he is, sir."

"You love my son?" Erhardt asked, challenging him. "My stubborn, brick-for-brains Emmett?"

 _Wow_ , Marty thought, trying not to grin. _I'm gonna remember that one for the next time Emmett pisses me off_. "There's nothing about him I _don't_ love. Brains included."

At that moment, both of them were distracted by the sound of Edith's voice hitting an unprecedented level of furious on the other side of the wall, followed by Emmett's indignant shriek: _Of course not, Mother! We weren't going to do THAT!_ In light of Emmett's phrasing, Marty could only imagine what kind of medical riot act she must be reading him.

"Consider how lightly you have gotten off the hook," Erhardt sighed, gesturing at the wall. "If you ever hurt him, mark my words," he continued, "there will be no _end_ of hell to pay."

Before Marty gather his wits sufficient to give an appropriate response, Erhardt left the room and shouted in the direction of Marty's bedroom door, " _Edith_! We will be late for the film!"

The sound of Marty's bedroom door opening was followed by a string of Edith's huffy, incomprehensible German. Erhardt responded in similar fashion, although he got her down the stairs and out the front door more swiftly than Marty had imagined possible. He sat back down on the bed, chin in hands, feeling dizzy. He hadn't been _breathing_ that whole time, had he?

Emmett marched in from the other room, red-faced but otherwise still defiant. He got down on his knees in front of Marty, taking hold of Marty's hands, pulling them gently away from his face. "Everything's going to be all right," he said, brushing his lips against Marty's. "They weren't out to get us; the whole thing's an unfortunate coincidence. They just came back because Mother forgot something. She was less worried about the fact we were, well, doing what we were doing, and more worried about the _what_ , if you catch my drift. She wanted to make sure I wasn't going to, I don't know, risk pregnancy or hurt myself—or hurt _you_ while I was at it, or vice versa. But we'll have to be very careful from here on out. She's worried for my safety even more now, and for yours, too."

"Happy Birthday," sighed Marty, resting his forehead against Emmett's. "I'm sorry you didn't..."

"Get off more than once?" Emmett teased, raising an eyebrow. "I'm less worried about that and more worried about the fact that I didn't get to take care of _you_." He kissed Marty again, and then pressed close, wrapping his arms around Marty tightly. "What can I do for you?" he asked softly, his lips brushing Marty's ear. "When was the first time you looked at me _like that_?"

The maddening thing was, Marty couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't say, _I started falling for you in 1985, at least in the emotional sense, but it wasn't until 1955 that I first saw you half-naked, surgery scar and all, and then had to go jerk off._ He clung to Emmett, shivering with pleasure.

"I shouldn't tell you this, Doc, but _God_ you look hot with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth."

Emmett smiled slyly, pressing Marty down onto his back. "I think I can work with that," he said.

 

**December 8, 1941**

On Sunday mornings when Emmett and Marty were home for the weekend, brunch at the local diner with Artie and Sylvia was their favorite choice of activity when they'd managed to sleep too late for a leisurely morning in bed.  Try as they might, Emmett's parents could never coax Emmett and Marty to come to church.  The first time Marty had asked Artie why he and Sylvia never went to Mass, he'd just laughed and said they were the Saturday evening crowd.  He'd muttered something about how he ought to have remembered that, and Emmett had squeezed Marty's hand.

This morning, Letitia had the radio on an all-jazz station, and George, now three years old, was standing on the floor next to the booth.  He was grinning and dancing comically to Duke Ellington's orchestra performing Billy Strayhorn's _Take the A Train_.  Emmett smiled at the boy, handing him a piece of hash-brown.  George shoved it in his mouth, giggling, and kept dancing.

"If you don't stop feedin' him that stuff," Sylvia complained halfheartedly, waving for Letitia to bring them some more coffee, "then he'll turn up his nose at lunch later on."

"At least he's getting something in his belly," said Marty, leaning around Doc so he could wave to the toddler.  "He's a picky eater, so you'd better take what you can get!"

"Be thankful I'm not giving him dining-hall scraps," Emmett told Sylvia.  "The stuff's so bad I told Marty he'd better learn how to cook. I think we've both lost weight, haven't we?"

Artie pulled a disapproving face, but it was largely in jest.  "But surely Marty doesn't have time for that, what with his music picking up?  How are the gigs going, anyway?"

Marty shrugged.  "A couple a week," he said.  "Usually on Thursdays and Fridays, and not till later, so I've still got time to get dinner on the table by the time Emmett's home from class."

"How's college treatin' ya, anyway?" Sylvia asked Emmett admiringly.  "Jeez Louise, in your junior year ready!  Time sure does fly. I never went to school, but at least I'm good with numbers."

"College is the least of my worries," Emmett said, nodding to Letitia in thanks as she refilled his mug.  "I've got to start thinking about my dissertation proposal if I expect to apply as a doctoral candidate before graduation a year and a half from now."

"He's already thinking about it," Marty yawned, glancing up at the waitress as she gave him a refill.  "Thanks so much, Lettie.  Ah, as I was saying—he's already going on about physics twenty-four seven.  I don't even know what he's saying," he added, squeezing Doc's thigh under the table.

"Don't let Marty fool you," said Emmett, wiping his mouth on a napkin.  "He not only understands a great deal of what I've been brainstorming aloud, but he also knows just what questions to ask in order to shoot me down. My thesis statement will be airtight thanks to him."

"You two are just the cutest," said Sylvia, winking at Marty.  "Livin' the bachelor life together out there in Menlo Park, all free an' easy. It's a wonder you get any studyin' done, am I right?"

"I don't know about _that_ —" Marty began, but a burst of news-bulletin music cut Ellington short.  He turned his head toward the counter, mystified.  "Maybe we ought to listen—"

And listen they did, horrified, as the stunned anchor reported extensive Japanese bombing attacks on Pearl Harbor, as well as on Hickam, Wheeler, Ford Island, Ewa Field, and Kaneohe air stations.  At around two thousand, four hundred casualties, the odds didn't look good.

"I hate to say it," Emmett whispered, "but that's the end of it. This means war for us, too."

"George, sweetie, come here," said Sylvia.  "Come and sit in your mother's lap, d'you hear?"

"Honey, it's going to be all right," Artie insisted, tugging her and the boy close.  "They'll never send me off at this rate." He tapped his glasses, which he'd only just gotten. "I'm too nearsighted."

"Yeah, but you're an accountant, and you've got _smarts_ , you goof!" Sylvia cried.  "They'll stick you in an office somewhere or at a desk on some battleship.  I ain't stupid, Artie.  I may not have been born in this country, but I know how your good old Uncle Sam works!"

Marty squeezed Emmett's hand urgently, shifting Emmett's focus from the McFlys across the table to the McFly he called his own (how serendipitous it had been, he remembered thinking three years back, that Marty had been able to track his long-dead father's cousins all the way to California).  "We need to get this stuff boxed up and head home," he said.  " _Now_.  Your parents will either get the news as they're leaving church or hear it on the radio while they drive home."

"You're right," Emmett said, taking a last swig of his coffee.  "We're sorry to leave you," he said, reaching across the table to cover Sylvia's hand, "but we're concerned that my parents—"

"Go, _shoo_!" Sylvia exclaimed, blowing her nose.  "For all I know, I'll be losin' both of _you_! What am I gonna _do_ with my boys off fightin'?"

Sylvia's tearful words haunted Emmett the whole way home.  He drove in silence, grounded only by Marty's hand on his shoulder.  The house was empty when they arrived, which wasn't unusual.  Edith and Erhardt often went out for lunch with friends. Emmett had scarcely locked up the car when Marty pulled him inside and up the staircase as fast as his insistence could carry them.

"Sylvia's right," Marty said, his voice low and panicked, locking the bedroom door behind them. He was already unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, tugging Emmett in by the front of _his_ shirt for a kiss. "They'll draft Artie for some desk-job, and they'll put me in action for sure."

Emmett made a noise of protest, kissing Marty deeply in hopes of calming him. "You won't be going alone," he said as reassuringly as he could, helping Marty finish off his buttons. "By that logic, they'll draft me, too. Unless being in the middle of college is still considered a valid exemption, but that isn't _right_. I'll apply for leave first thing on Monday."

Marty looked up from the progress he was making on Emmett's buttons, his expression helpless. He used the leverage he had to wheel Emmett around and set him down on the edge of the mattress, an eerie evocation of several years before. He knelt, finished off Emmett's buttons, unfastened Emmett's trousers, and ran his fingers reverently across Emmett's scar before leaning to kiss it.

"As wrong-headed as this sounds, Doc, they'll never take you," he sighed. "And you know it."

Emmett clenched his fists at his sides, slamming them against the mattress. "But I can _try_."

"The medical examination is pretty comprehensive," Marty replied, leaning in, and just held him.

Emmett closed his eyes, wrapping his arms tightly around Marty's shoulders. "Then I shouldn't apply for leave, should I," he whispered. "The fact that I'd like to serve my country doesn't matter."

"The fact that you'd like to serve your country _does_ matter," Marty insisted, burying his face in the crook of Emmett's neck. "And it also matters that at least one of us is around to keep tabs on Sylvia and George, okay? Artie will be grateful to you, and so will I. They're family."

"I don't know how much good I can do while I'm cooped up in Stanford study-rooms and alone in our apartment," said Emmett, resigned, running his fingers through Marty's hair, "but I can try."

"You more than just try," Marty told him. "And  _I'll try_ ,coming from you, means you'll give it your all. That's one of the things I've always loved about you. I don't want you to forget that."

Emmett disentangled Marty from his embrace, setting his hands on Marty's shoulders. "Marty?"

"Huh?" Marty asked, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. " _Ugh_. This is heavy."

"They haven't drafted you just yet," Emmett reminded him, tugging at Marty's waistband.

 

**January 30, 1943**

During his time in the Navy so far, Marty had been grateful for two things. One, that Erhardt Brown had been well connected enough to fix it so that he, well, _existed_ ; and two, that he'd been able to call in sufficient favors to ensure that Marty and Artie had got the same assignment.

The Big E—shorthand for USS _Enterprise_ , the place they called home—had taken a beating.

Marty stayed behind at the radar console with Zimmerman, who'd just relieved Artie, until Landers came along to relieve _him_. They were all exhausted, but adrenaline-high from the engagement; Marty and Artie had, on monitoring duty for the entirety of the battle and some hours afterward, taken the brunt of it. Landers turned up with a cigarette between his lips and a mug of coffee in hand. Marty smiled and saluted him, averting his eyes at the last second.

The stupidest shit reminded him of Emmett. Landers and his cigarette, Harmon and his habit of dismantling old radios, McKendrick and his dog-eared science journals. Marty pressed on through the cramped, labyrinthine tunnels in the belly of the ship until he reached his bunk. Artie, already up top and under his blankets, woke with a start as Marty came in. He yawned.

"Hey, I ran into Puller on my way down here," Artie said, pointing over the edge of his bunk, vaguely jabbing his finger in the direction of Marty's pillow. "You had some mail."

"Mail-call was three days ago, so I'd like to punch the idiot who overlooked _that_ ," Marty said, making a dive for the envelope before Artie had even withdrawn his hand. Emmett's handwriting was unmistakable, the slightly crabbed quality indicating that he'd addressed the letter in a rush. Marty tore into it, tugging out the modest, yet elegant stationery that he recognized as Edith's standard. "More news from up top, by the way," he sighed. "The _Chicago_ 's a total loss."

"There's nothing we could've done," said Artie, rolling over. "They hit her with four more torpedoes while _Navajo_ had her in tow. My son could've told you there'd be no chance of salvage."

"Rennell Island," said Marty, distractedly, skimming Emmett's letter. "Our great clusterfuck, huh?"

"We could've lost more," Artie murmured, already drifting off. "Somebody's looking out for us."

"Maybe," Marty agreed, starting to read the letter in earnest. He was starved for news from home.

_January 1, 1943_

_Dear Marty,_

_Happy New Year! As ever, I hope that this letter finds you well. I was displeased to learn from your last correspondence that shore leave is looking less and less like a possibility from here on out.  I was glad to see you back in October—gladder than I can possibly hope to express.  Three days wasn't nearly enough, I'm sure you'll agree.  I think my parents would've put us up at the Bluebird if it had been much longer.  They miss you, too, and complaining is their favorite way of showing it._

Marty had to bite his lip both to keep from laughing and to keep from reeling at the memory. They would have preferred to spend that weekend together in Menlo Park, but Erhardt and Edith had insisted that they remain so that Sylvia or anyone else might easily drop by. The end result was that they'd scarcely emerged from Emmett's room for the first forty-eight hours. Marty hadn't thought he'd ever be fortunate enough to discover what that kind of desperate, shut-away lovemaking was like, but, oh, he'd been _wrong_. All of Emmett's pent-up ferocity had been worth it.

_Continuing the theme of regrets, it therefore looks as if you might miss my graduation in May. I'm of the opinion that a Bachelor's degree isn't worth the same kind of fuss as a Doctorate, so I'll find it easy to forgive your absence. My parents, however, have other things to say on the matter, none of which are worth repeating here. You would think they have difficulty remembering exactly what you and Artie are doing over there—and why. Still, they remain glued to the radio; according to Clarissa, they haven't missed a single report. Guadalcanal is turning out to be quite the collaborative affair, isn't it? Those battles back in November were absolutely riveting._

Marty nodded slowly, wishing he could answer Emmett face-to-face. Sure, they were holding their own in the long run, but the Japanese were, just as Marty had learned in tenth-grade history, a worthy foe. He'd spent so many anxious, sleepless nights trying to remember the dates of various key battles, but he couldn't. And he'd had no recourse to just grabbing an encyclopedia, either. The worst part about being displaced in time was finding yourself smack in the middle of absolutely _shitty_ history and finding there wasn't a goddamn thing you could do to prevent any of it.

_Oh, to hell with it. I'm tired of the restraint it takes to measure my words against what the censors will (or will not) tolerate should somebody confiscate and open this letter before it reaches you. I've been admitted to the doctoral program starting this fall; I need you here to tell me this isn't just some bizarre dream. Come home to me, Marty. Come home safe, and please come home soon._

_Yours always, brick-brains and all,  
Emmett_

Tears smudging ink: that was another cliché Marty had been pretty sure _wasn't_ a thing until, yep, it was happening to _him_ sure enough. He set the letter aside on the sorry excuse for a bolted-to-the-wall desk that he and Artie shared. Stripping out of his clothes with tears streaming down his cheeks wasn't the easiest operation to accomplish in close quarters, but he managed it in record time and crawled under the bottom-bunk covers. He was grateful to Artie for letting him have that much, at least, in light of his nightmares and what a light sleeper he was. He'd expected to be looking out for Artie, but the truth was that Artie had been looking out for _him_.

"We'll both make it back," Marty said into his pillow. "You tell Sylvia that, Doc. We will."

 

**December 19, 1945**

_I can't begin to tell you_  
_how much you mean to me._  
_My world would end_  
_if ever we were through._

Emmett tapped his foot impatiently, longing for some peace and quiet. The noise would have been bad enough with all of the people milling about on the platform, but there just _had_ to be a radio humming away at the newsagent's stand behind them. Bing Crosby was all well and good for a winter evening shut inside with a book and some hot chocolate, but _here_? A distraction.

"So _impatient_ , Emmett," Edith scolded, as if he weren't twenty-five now and capable of not making a fuss. "We have five minutes yet. The two-twelve from San Francisco is on-time today."

"You'd be impatient, too," replied Emmett, sourly, "if it was Pop coming in, and you know it."

Erhardt lowered his newspaper sternly. "That's no way to speak to your mother," he said, making Emmett feel even _more_ like he was doomed to a day of being patronized. "Apologize."

"Sorry, Mother," Emmett sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm just anxious, that's all."

"Of course you are, sweetie," said Sylvia, patting Emmett's arm. "It's only natural," she said, glancing sidelong at George, who stood quietly at her side with his nose stuck in a comic book. "I'm afraid this one over _here_ ain't gonna remember his father. How's that for tough?"

"I remember Dad," George sighed, peering up at her sidelong. "We saw him not too long ago."

"Yeah, jeez," muttered Sylvia, fixing her hair. "If you call two _years_ not that long ago."

"If you've got a vivid imagination, it's not so bad," Emmett said, shrugging. "But it's still a while."

"Are you sayin' I ain't got a vivid imagination?" asked Sylvia, winking at Emmett. "Some nerve."

 _I can't begin to tell you_  
_how happy I would be_  
_if I could speak my mind_  
_like others do._

"Of course not," Emmett replied at length, considering the lyrics at hand. He'd developed a habit of paying particular attention to music from quite a young age, and he had to admit that perhaps this song was more befitting the circumstances than he'd thought. "You're way ahead of us all."

"You got it, Mister," said Sylvia, satisfied, letting go of Emmett's arm. She shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun, squinting down the tracks. "I don't see it yet. I _hope_ it's on time."

"Your eyes are going, Mom," said George, stepping out to the edge of the platform, peering into the distance. "I think I see something shiny out there. It's gotta be the train, right?" he asked.

"If there's chrome or polished steel on it anywhere, your theory's correct," said Emmett, stepping up to squint into the distance with him. "I think you may be right. Whatever it is, it's getting closer."

Edith sighed and fanned herself, sinking back down on the bench she'd been sharing with Erhardt. "Do us all a favor and step back from there," she said, "and make sure George does not fall."

Emmett sighed and set a hand on the boy's shoulder, guiding him back. "We'd better listen."

"Your mom is scary," George whispered, returning to Sylvia's side. "Does she ever shout?"

"Oh, she's done a fair bit of shouting in her time, all right," Emmett agreed, not even bothering to lower his voice. "And if you're lucky, you can hear her the whole way down the upstairs hall."

" _Emmett_ ," muttered Erhardt, unsuccessfully trying to disguise it as clearing his throat.

Emmett rolled his eyes, falling in line beside George. "They're both doozies," he said. "See?"

 _I make such pretty speeches_  
_whenever we're apart,_  
_but when you're near_  
_the words I choose_  
_refuse to leave my heart._

The train rattled into view without warning: scarcely a glint one moment, fully visible the next. George dropped his comic book on the platform, hopping up and down and waving as it approached, so Emmett collected the mess of bent pages and handed it to Sylvia so she could stuff it in her handbag. Stiffly, Edith got to her feet, and Erhardt wasn't far behind. Emmett went to them.

"It will take them a while to clear the cars," said Edith, levelly. "Wait here, let him come to us."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea," Emmett replied, pressing his back to the brick wall as more and more people flooded the platform. He wondered how many soldiers were coming in amongst the other passengers, and he wondered how many of the assembled crowd were their family members. He wondered how many wouldn't be coming home at all.

Once the train had pulled up and been cleared for disembarkation, the ensuing scene was straight out of a film. Emmett realized that he'd spent so little time out in the world growing up that he'd never seen anything quite like this: tearful elderly parents greeting their grown sons home with open arms, young wives with infants and toddlers in tow being swept up by relieved husbands, sisters greeting brothers back from the front with smirks and kisses on the cheek. It was astounding.

"Hey, look who's here!" said Artie, stepping up out of nowhere, shaking Emmett's hand. "It's great to see you again!" he exclaimed, folding Emmett in a back-clapping, breath-crushing hug before he could point out that Sylvia and George were standing, backs turned, right in front of them.

"Same to you," Emmett said, tilting his suggestively in Sylvia's direction. "You might want to..."

"Oh my _God_!" Sylvia exclaimed, whirling around once she'd realized whose voice she was hearing. "You no-good son of a bitch, get _over_ here!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Artie just as Emmett pushed him in her direction. "It's about time you showed up!"

"Dad!" George exclaimed, throwing his arms around Artie from behind while Sylvia kissed him.

Someone tapped on Emmett's shoulder. "Are you gonna call me a no-good son of a bitch, too?"

 _So take the sweetest phrases_  
_the world has ever known,_  
_and make believe_  
_I've said them all to you._

"No," said Emmett, turning slowly. He'd have known that voice anywhere; he needed no prompting. "But I'm going to give you a piece of my mind for sneaking up on me like that."

Marty grinned at him, uniform hat clutched to his chest. "It's been so long since you've done that," he said, taking Emmett's hand with his free one, twining their fingers. "I honestly can't wait."

Emmett brushed at the strand of hair that had fallen to his forehead, self-conscious. He'd continued to develop fine traces of grey, strands so pale as to seem white. "As you can see, I'm getting old."

"At least one of us is gonna look dignified," Marty said, smoothing it back for him. "It suits you."

Before Emmett could damn propriety and throw himself in Marty's arms, Edith got in the way and did that very thing. Marty clung to her with all his strength while she broke down sobbing on his shoulder; it was perhaps the most unrestrained show of emotion Emmett had seen from _anyone_. He smiled at Marty while they both patted her back, shrugging.

"I had every confidence that you would return," said Erhardt, gently extracting his wife when the situation grew slightly untenable for Marty, who _did_ need to breathe. "Welcome home."

Marty nodded to him, giving a sharp, attractive salute. "Your Honor," he said. "I've missed you."

"My son has missed you most of all," Erhardt said, nodding in Emmett's direction. "Go to him."

Emmett knew full well that Marty's hat wasn't supposed to end up on the ground like that, but neither one of them could be bothered to retrieve it. Marty sagged against him, his head tucked close against Emmett's shoulder, breathing hard. Emmett took Marty's weight without any effort at all, holding him up as they clung to each other in the midst of the crowd. Marty lifted his head.

"Hey," he murmured in Emmett's ear, his words too quiet for anyone else to catch. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Emmett replied, lowering his voice in kind. "From the first moment I saw you."

"There's more," Marty whispered conspiratorially. "I'd like to marry you. How does that sound?"

"I consider us married already, if it helps," Emmett whispered back. "But I wouldn't mind rings."

"I know it can't be official or anything," Marty sighed, squeezing him. "Rings, I think I can do."

 _In the end, love really is easy,_ Emmett thought. _It's the rest you've got to fight for._


	2. What You Fight For

**November 20, 1938**

Marty stood in the kitchen with his arms tightly folded, watching Edith prepare a tea tray. It was Clarissa's day off, but Edith had taken to preparing most of Emmett's meals herself in the past two weeks as it was. _Two weeks and one day_ , Marty thought, still relieved beyond reason.

"Take this to him and share it," Edith sighed, placing the tiny bowl of sugar just _so_. "I cannot even mother him properly, because he'll only eat if _you_ are the one who delivers."

"I didn't mean to steal your job, Mrs. Brown," said Marty, contritely, taking up the tray. "Honest."

"Please, _Edith_ ," she insisted, wiping her hands on Clarissa's apron, which she'd borrowed.

"He appreciates that you come up and eat dinner with us, you know," Marty said, hefting the tray playfully, heading for the door. "Maybe try convincing your husband to do the same more often?"

Edith shook her head, smiling sadly. "Erhardt cannot stand to see Emmett unwell, so he works."

"At least the three of us have got each other for company, I guess," replied Marty, winking, and left.

The tea tray with its elegant service for two prevented Marty from bounding up the stairs, although he moved as quickly as he dared upon noticing, as he passed, that the front door was both unlocked _and_ slightly ajar. They'd had extreme difficulty keeping Emmett in bed as early as the start of his second week post-surgery, and, more often than not, they'd caught him downstairs in the library or even having gotten as far as the driveway in an attempt to reach his lab in the garage.

Marty approached the top of the stairs, stopping dead in his tracks. There was no reason to check Emmett's room given he could see that the door was ajar in that instance, too. He turned on his heel and went back down the stairs, swearing under his breath. "You stubborn, brick-for-brains _jackass_ ," he muttered, reaching the front door, elbowing it open. "You're single-handedly responsible for me starting to sound like your old man."

Emmett was, just as Marty had expected, standing at his favorite section of work-top in the garage, tinkering with something that looked far too dangerous for a gaunt young man in robe and slippers.

"Do I really need to remind you that you've got a stitched-up gash across your abdomen?" Marty demanded, setting the tray down directly across from Emmett's latest gadget with a resounding _clunk_. "Are you _trying_ to make it so that you scar worse than expected?"

"Marty, calm down," Emmett sighed, surrendering his pliers. "Now you sound like my mother."

"I don't care who the hell I sound like," Marty muttered, defeated, pouring two cups of tea. "Now we're out here, we might as well put the time to good use hiding. Your mom will freak."

"Doctor Kushner advised light walking as soon as I felt well enough to do so," Emmett replied, gratefully accepting a cup of tea from Marty. "It just so happens I felt that way earlier than many. You have to remember most of his hysterectomy patients are, how best to put it, _venerable_ ladies." He reached for Marty's hand as he withdrew, brushing the back by way of apology. "Mother says that, moving forward, I should tell people I had my appendix out. Safer that way."

 _Well, that explains the story you told me in 1955,_ Marty thought. _I wish you'd felt safe, Doc._ "I mean, thank God you were allowed to shuffle to the bathroom with help as soon as we got you home," he sighed, downing half of his cup. "I don't think I could've carried you."

"I don't want any more morphine," Emmett insisted, wrinkling his nose. "I've spent too much time asleep, and the discomfort's manageable now. I don't scar _too_ terribly; you've seen my knee."

 _Yeah, but I've seen_ this _scar._ "It's an eight-inch stitched incision," Marty repeated.

"It _itches_ already," said Emmett, irritably. "It's a nuisance. I need to distract myself."

"Please come back to bed," Marty coaxed, finishing his tea. "I'll make it worth your while."

Emmett raised an eyebrow, sipping the remainder of his own. "Really? I have two conditions."

"Name 'em," Marty sighed. " _Anything_ , I swear. Your mother's gonna see me hanged if she catches us here. Do you feel well enough to sneak around back and take the servants' entrance?"

"Very well," Emmett replied, feigning indignity. "One, _you've_ got to come back to bed. No more of this sleeping-in-your-own-room-while-I'm-recovering nonsense. I won't _break_."

"Fair enough," Marty conceded, taking Emmett's cup, placing it back on the tray. "And two?"

"I wouldn't mind in the least if you'd, _ahem_ ," Emmett said, making his way carefully around to Marty's side of the workstation, "give me some attention. It won't cause too much strain if—"

"You're a pain in the ass," said Marty, flatly, taking Emmett's arm, balancing the tray one-handed. "D'you know that?" He grimaced and set the tray back down. "No way am I taking that back in right now. Getting you up the stairs is more important. We might just get in trouble after all."

"Does that mean you agree to both conditions?" asked Emmett, slyly, bumping Marty's elbow.

"You don't have to ask me twice to come back and sleep in your room," said Marty, hustling Emmett out of the garage as swiftly as he could. He got them around the side of the house in record time, although an unsuccessfully muffled wince from Emmett forced him to stop. "As for the, um, the other thing," he panted, wrapping his arm more firmly around Emmett's waist so Emmett could sag into him for a moment, "only my hand, and _only_ with some of that sterile gel stuff the doctor left behind so your mom can perform exams. I swear to God, Emmett, if you try to move around too much or— _mmm_ , fuck. Remind me why this is a terrible idea?"

"It's not," Emmett reassured him, drawing back from the impromptu kiss, looking pleased, if more exhausted than he was letting on. "I'm sure I can return the favor under similar guidelines."

"No. Absolutely not," said Marty, carefully tugging him the final few yards to the servants' entrance, which was in actuality a _servant's_ entrance, singular. " _Dammit_. Let's get your butt upstairs, and then see how you feel. You're looking kinda wiped-out."

"Lies," Emmett mumbled as they proceeded, clinging to each other and to the railings for dear life. They emerged from the dead-end door next to the master bedroom to find a cool, empty upstairs hallway that showed no signs of Edith's presence. "Come on. We've wasted enough time!"

Marty got Emmett settled in bed, and then dashed to the bathroom to wash his hands. The surgical lubricant in question was on Emmett's nightstand along with Edith's case of exam implements, and the thought of what they were about to do made him shiver. He was too concerned to feel turned on at the prospect, although watching Emmett enjoy himself was _always_ —

Emmett's gasp was too soft for anyone's ears but Marty's, as thoroughly as he'd trained himself to detect it even through walls. He dried his hands and rushed back, bolting the door behind him.

Emmett—having already dispensed with robe, slippers, _and_ his pajama bottoms—lay still and pale against the pile of pillows. However, his right hand was slick and noticeably occupied.

"You couldn't wait, could you," Marty sighed, taking in the sight appreciatively for another second before kicking out of his shoes, knocking the tube off the nightstand in haste to get some of the stuff on his fingers, and climbing onto the mattress beside Emmett. " _Hey_ ," he whispered, uncurling Emmett's fingers and replacing them with his own. "Stop that." He'd never been more grateful that the entirety of Emmett's dick fit in his fist. "Your only job is to rest."

"Then _kiss_ me," Emmett snapped, struggling not to buck into Marty's grasp. "Idiot."

Mindful of Emmett's bandaging (it had been changed by Edith the night before and would need changing again the next day), Marty worked him as thoroughly as he dared. The closer Emmett got, the more he twitched, so Marty had to drape one leg across Emmett's to hold him still. That said, it was over in a matter of _minutes_. Marty sucked at Emmett's lower lip, easing his hand away.

"That was fast," he said, kissing the corner of Emmett's mouth. "You must've been in a real state."

"It's partly increased blood-flow thanks to healing in the vicinity," Emmett muttered. "And partly the fact that I'm stir-crazy and _want_ you," he added, tugging at the front of Marty's trousers.

"If it helps, think about this as a consent issue instead of an I'm-worried-about-you issue," said Marty, firmly, wresting Emmett's sticky hand away. "No means no means _no_."

Emmett straightened his unbuttoned pajama top, yawning, and then folded his arms across his exposed chest. "You know me too well, don't you?" he challenged, wiping his hand on the sheets.

 _Thank God that gel's sterile_ , Marty thought, nodding in agreement. He kissed Emmett again.

 

**January 3, 1940**

Still half asleep, Emmett ran his fingertips across the smooth, slightly irregular plane of his scar from one end to the other. Marty was dead to the world, cuddled up against Emmett's back, one arm curled protectively over Emmett's shoulder and across his collarbone. Emmett hummed.

"If you're trying to test my state of consciousness," Marty mumbled, "then congrats. Success."

Emmett shrugged, shifting and rolling until he could settle on his back within the confines of Marty's embrace. He brought both hands up to stroke Marty's forearm. "I'm sorry I woke you, Marty," he sighed. "I enjoy the sensory input provided by your early-morning sleep cycle."

"Sorry you interrupted my beauty rest, or sorry you lost your data set?" Marty groused, yawning.

"Perhaps both," Emmett conceded, letting his eyes drift shut, trailing his right hand over to Marty's elbow before lifting it to delve beneath the covers, finding the smooth musculature of Marty's thigh, the satisfying feel of Marty's erection against his hip. "They call it _paradoxical sleep_ ," he said languidly, switching hands as he stroked Marty. "I've been reading up on the subject."

"Didn't I also hear somewhere that it's called your REM cycle or something?" asked Marty, sleepily, pushing against Emmett's body as much as he was pushing into his touch. "You're the doc, Doc."

"Not yet, I'm not. And I've never heard that term in my life," said Emmett, frowning, but he kept on stroking. "Maybe I just have yet to run across it. They keep talking about _rapid eye movement_ in this particular dreaming phase, so perhaps that's where the acronym originates. I'll keep reading."

Marty stiffened, as if Emmett had spun his tease wrong. "I don't wanna think about science," he murmured, rolling until, good _morning_ , he was lying on top of Emmett. Maybe Emmett had misread him; maybe he just wanted to be in control. "I wanna think about _this_." 

Emmett spread his thighs, pleased, accommodating Marty's weight. "Be more specific?"

Marty kissed him deeply, _thrillingly_ , rubbing against him until they were both too aroused to ignore it. "I didn't have anything in mind, honestly. I just wanna make you scream since your mom's down at the courthouse with your dad today and we've got only a couple weeks till school starts up for you again. It'll be nice to be back in our apartment, but you'll be busy."

Emmett licked his lips, deciding this might be as opportune a moment as any; he'd been pressing this particular line of inquiry for months. "I don't mean to harp on this, but I want to _try_ —"

"You still might not be fully healed," Marty insisted, that same old shut-down line. "I don't want—"

"Bullshit," Emmett said, and that got Marty's attention; Marty's eyes snapped open. "You could've had me that way three or four months out if you'd wanted. Marty, I kept _asking_ if—"

"I know my fingers and my tongue and stuff don't hurt you, Emmett, I _know_ , but—"

"But nothing!" Emmett protested. "You also know I enjoy it. Is this genuinely another you're-worried-about-me issue, or is it _actually_ a consent issue? Because if you really don't want to, you're going to have to tell me that in no uncertain terms. Otherwise, I'll keep asking."

Marty's breath left him in a shaky rush; he kissed Emmett until neither of them could breathe, squirming in agitation as Emmett wrapped his legs around Marty, trapping him. "I _want_..."

Over a year ago, during Emmett's surgery, the hospital had been able to report on enough to keep Emmett happy for the foreseeable future—or at least until more advances should arise. He had what Doctor Kushner had remarked in his notes _looked_ like ovaries, although Emmett's apparent hormone irregularities meant that his testosterone levels had remained sufficient to prevent him from developing anything resembling breasts. It likely would've been sufficient to prevent him from ever menstruating, too, but it was better he'd chosen surgery than ended up sorry. 

He was the man he'd always known he'd become, and Marty was just the man _for_ him.

"I already know what you _don't_ want," said Emmett, gently, "and you know I don't, either."

Marty nodded, burying his face in Emmett's neck. "Yeah," he agreed. "The, uh, other way just sounds uncomfortable, although I have to say your fingers that one time _really_ weren't bad."

Emmett shrugged against the mattress, deliciously pinned. "Fingers all-around effective. Noted."

"I actually wouldn't mind trying what you're asking for, either," Marty sighed shakily, defeated.

"Then why are you being so goddamn stubborn about it?" Emmett asked, stroking Marty's hair.

"I'm afraid I'll _injure_ you. That's worse than hurt. I sound like a broken record, but it's _true_."

"I don't think you'd be capable of that if, so far, I haven't managed to injure myself," Emmett said.

Marty lifted his head, blinking in rapid, lust-muddled confusion. "Run that by me again, Doc?"

Emmett grinned, thrusting up against him. "What kind of scientist do you take me for?" He bit Marty's earlobe, satisfied at the whimper it got him. "It was uncomfortable at first, but you'd be amazed at what wonders the absence of a cervix can do. _Yes_ , I also attempted self-penetration prior to surgery as a control; it was frustrating. I'll draw you a diagram later if—"

"You gave me enough diagrams back in the day," Marty said, nuzzling Emmett's cheek. "Gotcha."

"I don't understand why we're still arguing about this," Emmett said, pushing at Marty's hips until he lifted up just enough for Emmett to get a firm grip on him. "I don't imagine we'll, _well_ —have any issues at this point," he breathed, giving Marty a squeeze while Marty fingered him. Marty's touch was familiar, _comforting_ ; it soothed and excited Emmett all at once.

"Yeah, wow," Marty agreed breathlessly, but he lavished attention on Emmett until he was all but thrashing under the touches. "Hey, _hey_. If you think you're ready, I'll..."

Emmett hadn't even bothered to let go of him. He guided Marty with steady fingers, gasping at the initial jolt, the relentless push, the _give_ that synthetic implements hadn't prepared him for. Still, none of his trial runs had been in vain; soon enough, Marty sank into him with a whimper.

"Does it—feel all right for you, too?" asked Emmett, nervously, tightening his thighs against Marty's hips. He let his toes creep down the backs of Marty's calves, his breath shallow. He was slightly more tense than he would have liked to be, but Marty was trembling with nerves, too.

"Jesus. I'm _inside_ you," Marty whispered, kissing him hard. "Feels perfect." He rolled his hips against Emmett, giving him the friction he liked; Emmett crushed their mouths back together, stifling his groan. "Tell me what you'd like me to do, okay? Keep on like this, _ah_ —" embarrassing, how quickly he expected they were _both_ going to come "—or try withdrawing and—don't know, fuck, you feel _so good_ —and thrusting like— _like_ —?"

"Stay right where you are," Emmett whispered, stroking Marty's cheek. "Don't change a _thing_." He shifted under Marty, his breath catching on the beginning of the end.

 

**September 19, 1941**

Marty tried to concentrate on the chord sequence he'd worked out, but it was no use. For a Friday night, approaching eight o'clock was _unusually_ late for Emmett not to have come home. His final class had ended just before six. Marty strummed nonsense, wrecking his train of thought.

He'd had dinner ready for forty-five minutes (his best attempt at burritos, the basis of which were homemade corn tortillas from Mrs. Peralta downstairs). There'd have been little use in trying to keep it warm beyond covering both plates with another pair of plates, which he'd already done.

Just as he sighed and set aside his guitar, propping it against the arm of the sofa, Emmett's key rattled noisily into the door. It always took him several tries to get it open, as if he could never recall which way to turn the lock. Marty spared him the trouble, throwing the bolt, opening the door. Emmett, briefcase in hand, blinked at him, shoving his key ring back in his pocket.

"Three weeks into the semester, and Dr. Wyatt is already letting her lectures run over," he groused, pushing past Marty, slamming the door behind him. "You'd have thought she'd have some sense that most of us have places to be; a couple of my classmates have young kids at home, never mind spouses." He dumped the briefcase, his shoulders sagging. "I'm _tired_ already, Marty."

One look at Emmett's despairing expression, and Marty didn't even have the heart to rag on him for the lack of a greeting. "C'mere," he said, holding out his arms, and Emmett came to him without protest. "Are you _sure_ this is the professor you wanna ask to be your doctoral supervisor?"

"A very resounding _yes_ ," grumbled Emmett, folding against Marty, backing him up against the door for a kiss. "She's brilliant, of course. Even when she keeps rambling, it's worth listening."

"Then don't bitch when she lets you out late, okay?" Marty replied. "You love the old windbag."

"But I love you more," Emmett pointed out, sighing. "Tell me your day was better than mine."

Marty shrugged, running his fingers through Emmett's endearing, increasingly more chaotic hair. "I slept late, cleaned this place, had brunch at that diner you like, played for a while, made dinner—"

"And I kept you waiting, didn't I," Emmett sighed, tugging Marty away from the door. "The food smells _wonderful_ , but something tells me you could stand to de-stress first. Sit."

Marty collapsed on the sofa at Doc's urging, sagging against the cushions as Emmett knelt in front of him. "Listen, that's fine as long as _you're_ not starving. I ate some of the extra tortillas, because they were still warm when Lucero brought them up. I had to run out for stuff to prep—"

"I'm mildly hungry," said Emmett, running his palms up Marty's thighs, "but it's nothing urgent."

"You're a terrible liar," Marty replied, smiling in spite of himself. "And that's a sad pick-up line."

Doc unfastened Marty's trousers, giving him a mock-reproachful look. " _You_ look eager."

Marty mussed Doc's hair again, shivering as Doc palmed him through his underwear. "Can you even blame me? Here you are, just home from class and all worked up about science. That's hot."

"One would think irritation _isn't_ the kind of worked up you'd like to see," Emmett mused, leaning forward to nuzzle Marty's hard-on before exposing it to the breeze-stirred living room air.

"I beg to differ," Marty muttered, gritting his teeth as Emmett licked him thoughtfully. "Think back to the day we first met. You dropped all your shit because I walked smack into you. Between the dagger-eyes and the red hair, Doc, you were pretty much irresistible. What was I supposed to do?"

"Exactly what you did, of course," Emmett replied, giving him another lick. "Nobody else in town would've been kind enough. That's why you endeared yourself to me right from the start, too."

"And here we are," said Marty, shakily, head falling back as Doc took the tip of Marty's erection delicately between his teeth, "backing each other into doors and furniture and... _Doc_..."

"You call me that far more often in intimate situations," Emmett observed softly, working Marty with one hand, leaning to lavish another wet kiss on the head, "and I don't know _why_."

 _I wish I could tell you_ , Marty thought, but he was losing coherency; Doc was amazing at this, and _wickedly_ clever when it came to drawing things out. "Emmett," he said instead, skimming his fingernails down Emmett's cheek, making Emmett shiver when they reached his neck.

"I understand that you find my intelligence as arousing as my looks, but can we _please_ not count my proverbial degree-bearing chickens before they've even hatched?" asked Emmett, wryly.

"At this rate," Marty gasped as Emmett began to suck him, "we can not-count whatever you want."

Before all was said and done, they'd managed to knock Marty's guitar noisily to the floor. Dinner might've been cold by the time they got around to eating, but neither one of them cared.

 

**October 30, 1942**

Emmett drummed the fingers of his left hand against the steering wheel, patiently chewing the thumbnail of his right to shreds.  His father had cautioned him that the old blue truck sounded like it was finally on its last wheels, but Emmett had insisted that if it had been able to withstand one last drive from Menlo Park back to Hill Valley, then it could _certainly_ withstand one more run to the train station to collect Marty for his all-too-brief seventy-two hours of shore leave.  

In his telegraph several days prior, Emmett's instructions to Marty had been clear:   _WILL NOT MEET YOU ON PLATFORM. PLAN TO REMAIN IN VEHICLE. FIND ME IN PARKING AREA. DO NOT TRUST SELF NOT TO MAKE SCENE. YOURS ALWAYS, E._

Judging by the fact that Emmett was still alone, Marty's train from San Francisco was running twelve minutes behind schedule.  Disgusted, he gave up on his thumbnail and rummaged in the glove box for his mother's emery board.  He'd taken such care with his appearance otherwise, suit and hair and all; it wouldn't do to risk leaving Marty with a scratch down his flawless cheek—

Sudden tapping on the passenger-side window turned Emmett's blood cold.  He froze mid-stroke in his filing and replaced the emery board with scarcely controlled determination, and then looked up.

Marty, heart-stoppingly handsome in uniform, tapped again, grinning. "Hey, how about a ride?"

" _Hey_ yourself," Emmett muttered, firing up the ignition; he was grinning like crazy. As Marty yanked the door open and struggled in (his rucksack took up nearly the whole foot-well), he surreptitiously verified that the parking brake was still engaged. "Scare me half to death, why don't you?" he asked, eagerly leaning forward as Marty shut the door behind him.

Kissing at sunset with the car lights out wasn't as dangerous as risking the same in broad daylight, but they _were_ taking their chances. Emmett had missed Marty so fiercely that this moment, in his mind, had been a foregone conclusion. Judging by Marty's response, it had been for him, too.

"I thought about you, Doc. Dreamed about you, wanted you so bad I couldn't _breathe_ —"

"I imagine it's difficult to breathe in close quarters at a baseline, so consider me flattered," said Emmett, pulling back again after having cut Marty off. "I thought about you, too. Constantly."

"Can you believe I've only been gone ten months?" Marty asked, the curve of his lips thoroughly distracting. "And yeah, life on the ship is pretty tight. Me and Artie live in each other's pockets."

"You'll be back in a real bed for two nights, at least," Emmett said, reluctant to remove his hand from Marty's thigh. His rough thumbnail snagged and caught in the weave of Marty's trousers.

"The sooner you drive," replied Marty, locking eyes with him, "the sooner we can get in it."

"Mother said she and Pop won't be home till midnight," said Emmett, doing as he'd been told.

"Yeah?" Marty asked, finally removing his hat. "That's smart, I guess. How are they doing?"

"Same as always, if crankier," Emmett replied, cruising straight through the empty intersection. "They complain that they don't see me often enough, but that's ridiculous. They miss you."

"We should try to stay awake till they get home, then," Marty said. "Probably not difficult?"

 _Do you actually think I intend to let you leave my room?_ Emmett thought, burning through the remaining quarter-mile at an unadvisable clip. "They don't expect to see us till breakfast," he said instead, already dizzy with want. "Sylvia and George are coming for late lunch tomorrow."

"Artie sends his regards," Marty told him, clutching his hat to his chest. "His leave's in a month."

"Then he can bring his regards in person," Emmett said, turning up the driveway. " _Home_."

Operating house keys in standard locks on a normal day wasn't what you'd call Emmett's forté. The same undertaking on a day in which one's lover had temporarily returned from war was nigh _impossible_. Laughing, Marty let go of Emmett's arm, took the keys, and let them in. 

Marty's protests that they'd left his luggage in the truck fell on wilfully deaf ears. Emmett felt slightly guilty about that as he tugged Marty upstairs at an out-and-out _run_ , but, by the necking-instigated loss of Marty's hat at the first landing, they'd both decided not to dwell on it.

"I know nobody's home," Marty panted, his knuckles digging into Emmett's shoulder blades, "but if we don't make it up those last dozen or so steps, Doc, I swear to _God_ —"

"Baker's dozen," Emmett muttered, knowing full well he'd lost the capacity to think clearly. He stepped back, shaking at the loss of contact, and Marty sagged against the wall. "Come on," he said, offering Marty his arm. "Let's attempt _some_ measure of decorum."

That endeavor lasted only as long as it took to bolt Emmett's bedroom door behind them.

"Jesus, Emmett, _easy_ ," Marty panted, intervening on his buttons' behalf as Emmett backed him down on the mattress. "They don't like it when we rip shit up for reasons other than combat."

Emmett rucked up the Navy-issue undershirt he found beneath the heavy outer layers, tugging it over Marty's head. He kicked off his shoes, nudging them off the edge of the mattress, and then tossed Marty's uppers down to join them. Marty pushed at his chest until he sat up, returning the favor; Emmett's jacket and shirt were his finest, but none of that mattered. On the floor they went.

"I won't go easy," Emmett insisted, sitting on the edge of the mattress just long enough to strip out of his trousers, listening to Marty curse under his breath as he did the same on the opposite side of the bed. "Ten months without you has been _hell_ , and I don't think I have to tell you why."

Marty made a pained sound, the exhalation pinned tight to the back of his throat as he crawled over to clutch at Emmett from behind. He watched as Emmett let his trousers and underthings drop to join the rest of their scattered clothing, his chin resting on Emmett's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said.

"People don't bother me when you're around," Emmett sighed, twisting at an awkward angle to kiss Marty deep and feverish. "They don't get on my case about improbable science, they don't rib me about the few white hairs I seem to have acquired, they don't ask me why I'm so... _isolated_."

"God, I wish we were at our own place for the weekend and not here," Marty seethed, manhandling him around so they could lie tangled together on top of the duvet. "I'd give those Stanford jerks a piece of my mind. Your science _isn't_ improbable, I don't _care_ if you're going grey, and as for the isolation, jeez, maybe if they weren't complete fucking _assholes_ , you'd—"

"Don't leave me again," Emmett pleaded, pinning Marty flat on his back. " _Please_."

Marty propped himself up on his elbows, returning Emmett's desperation with a bruising kiss. The breathy noises he was making meant a lot of different things: he had so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to _do_ , and determining which deserved the upper hand was probably quite difficult with Emmett's thigh rubbing up against him. "I wish I didn't have to," he whispered.

Emmett shifted position, levering himself up on hands and knees so that Marty could stroke between his legs, pushing into the contact when Marty focused on his prick. It was tricky to keep kissing him, much though Emmett would have liked to; he could've easily gotten off like that, but Marty's palm sliding down the underside of his shaft, index and middle fingers probing carefully, changed his mind. "I know that," he murmured, nuzzling Marty's cheek. "What do you want?"

"Anything, and do it _quick_ ," Marty said with difficulty. "Emmett, I— _Jesus_. I love—"

Warmth, pressure, a connecting point, _anything_. Emmett straddled him, having positioned them carefully, and let his weight settle, breathless. Marty stifled a sharp cry against Emmett's ear as Emmett folded them closer together, shielding as much of Marty's body as he was able. 

"You too," Emmett whispered, stroking Marty's hair back from his forehead, rocking against him, watching him gasp and shiver. "I wish I could protect you. I can't _stand_ that I'm not there."

Marty huffed, laughing, wrapping his arms around Emmett's neck. "You are, though. Your letters."

"I'll write more," Emmett promised fervently, snagging one of the pillows from above them, tugging it down to stuff beneath Marty's head. " _Mmm_ ," he mumbled, stealing another kiss.

Marty shivered, tensing under him, hips jerking unevenly. "Fuck, I love you. _Fuck_. Can't..." 

"Oh, it's all right," Emmett reassured him, closing his eyes in bliss. " _I'm_ only just getting started."

 

**December 19, 1945**

Marty hung on for dear life as Emmett tore out of the train station parking lot, belatedly remembering to fasten his seatbelt. They'd left Edith, Erhardt, Sylvia, and the McFly family behind in spite of how much wheedling there'd been from Sylvia to get them all to go out for a bite together.

"This, ah," Marty said, watching the wrong scenery whiz past, "isn't the way back to the Estate."

"My parents' house?" Emmett asked, flipping his turn signal as they neared the highway entrance ramp. "Are you _crazy_? It may be six days before Christmas, but I'm not coming back here till the twenty-fourth. If you've got any sense at all, you won't, either. Menlo Park or bust!"

"I knew I married you for a reason," replied Marty, grinning at him. "Want me all to yourself?"

"As temptingly romantic as that notion may be, my priorities are actually to make sure you get some decent sleep and eat some real food," Emmett muttered, side-eyeing him. "You look thin."

"Stress will do that, I guess," Marty agreed, leaning against the door. "I admit I _am_ tired."

"Here," Emmett said, lifting his left hand from the wheel, patting his right shoulder. "Rest a bit."

"Emmett, you're _driving_ ," Marty protested, but, God, it was tempting. "That's a bad—"

"There are no such things as bad ideas," Emmett insisted, setting his hand back on the wheel. "Just failed experiments, and the worst that happens with those is you _learn_ something."

"There's no arguing with your logic, Doc, as always," Marty sighed, doing as he'd been told. Emmett's speed had evened out, just slightly under the limit, and it felt nice to lean on him, be lulled...

Emmett's lips against Marty's forehead woke him from light slumber. " _Marty_. We're here."

Marty yawned, stretched, and undid his seatbelt. He couldn't be bothered to do more than slump back against Emmett, who was all too happy to put an arm around Marty, hugging him close.

"I bet Wyatt's been riding your T.A. butt so hard you've scarcely had time to think about me," he yawned. "You haven't even bitched about your undergrads for the past few letters. What gives?"

"I'm happy to have you back," Emmett said. "There's no secret to it. I was counting the weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. Not even a bunch of snot-nosed kids could ruin _that_."

"And now you don't have to put up with 'em till late January," Marty replied. "Sweet deal."

"Your curious turns of phrase are sometimes apt," Emmett allowed, kissing Marty's forehead. "I know you blush to no end when Mother says so, but you _are_ as sweet as they come."

Marty yawned. "Listen, I could stay here all evening with you, but the neighbors would talk."

"Oh, they already talk," said Emmett, matter-of-factly. "Lucero's known for a while, I think."

"Then thank God for people minding their own business," Marty sighed. "Let's go in, okay?"

Wrestling Marty's luggage and Emmett's overnight bag out of the back of the truck was certainly a two-person job; Marty was glad he'd recovered some of his strength. He patted the truck's battered back fender, following Marty up the front steps. "I can't believe you're still driving that thing."

"Neither can Pop," said Emmett, grinning back at him, nailing the lock on his first try. "Ta-da!"

"Looks like grad school is good for something," Marty remarked, dodging a playful blow. "How long did it take you to work out the physics? Did it start making sense as soon as you applied an equation—"

Emmett kissed him soft and slow, propping the door open with his shoulder. "I love you, too."

Marty felt like his heart might burst; he didn't even care if they'd been seen. "Hey, Emmett?"

"Hmmm?" Emmett hummed noncommittally, pulling away so he could start up the staircase.

"What kind of rings did you have in mind, anyway?" Marty asked hopefully, dashing after him.


End file.
